


Hide and Seek

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift for LadyTP! Inspired by her prompts in a holiday exchange on the sansa_sandor LJ comm. There will be shadowing and jealousy but no big, dramatic backdrop of events. It will be a business-as-usual atmosphere, with everyone who needs to be aged up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/gifts).



Sansa was bored. Her father was in a small council meeting for the morning, Arya was wherever Arya felt like being, and Jeyne was off in the company of some friends. _I could go visit Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen_ , she thought without enthusiasm. She was of an age with the prince but did not enjoy his company. He was arrogant, willful, and prone to hiding behind his parents' titles when he didn't get his way. Sansa was no longer distracted by his handsome face though she enjoyed the way he whirled her around during a dance and would sometimes accompany him on rides through the countryside. He could be pleasing when he wanted to play the gallant but his company generally required a level of effort that Sansa didn't feel like expending today.

 

Unlike her older brother, Myrcella was consistently lovely and pleasant. She and Sansa shared a love of music, singing, and dancing but Myrcella was betrothed to Willas Tyrell and much in his company. Seeing Myrcella and Willas so happy together made a warm feeling of joy for her friend spread within Sansa but it was tinged by a slight ache at the loss of her company. Myrcella and Willas politely extended invitations to Sansa to join them on their outings but she often felt like she was intruding. Now that their wedding was just a few days away, they were busier than ever and Sansa, reconsidering, thought it was probably best not to call on Myrcella just now.

 

That left Tommen, who was, of course, adorable. He was shedding his baby fat and growing more handsome by the day. His considerable energy made him a better companion for Arya and the two of them often went riding together. Sometimes Sansa went with them but they preferred to ride faster, farther, and longer than she usually cared to and one day out with them often left her tired for the next two. Wishing for calmer companionship, she decided to visit Tommen another day.

 

So Sansa was all alone when the prickles along the back of her neck made her slide her eyes to the side. Her back straightened and she tried to look discreetly over her shoulder. All she saw was the hem of a cloak disappear around a corner. _Just a servant_ , she thought, though she'd never felt such a ripple from the presence of a servant before. She'd been surrounded by them her whole life, after all. _Find something to do_ , she told herself. _You’re imagining things!_

 

So she did. She walked the battlements, had tea with Septa Mordane, visited with her father in his solar, and attended another fitting for the gown she’d wear to the wedding, but the feeling that someone had been looking at her wouldn't stop nagging at the edges of her mind.

 

*

 

The next morning there was a knock at her door. She opened it and filling the frame was the Hound, Joffrey’s sworn shield. Sandor Clegane was big, burned, often rough-tongued, and more than often drenched in too much wine. At first she’d found his scarred visage fearsome but soon learned his bark was worse than his bite. In the two years she’d known him, he’d simply become another face in the castle.

 

His derisive gaze swept over her. “Prince Joffrey would like you to join him as he breaks his fast.”

 

_I’m invited to watch him eat but not to dine myself?_ Sansa prevented herself from wrinkling her nose. “I’d be delighted.”

 

The Hound offered his arm, which Sansa felt obliged to accept, though she maintained as much of a distance from him as she could since everyone knew Margaery Tyrell was lately favoring him with her attention and she had no desire to provoke Margaery's displeasure. Clegane was heavily favored to win the upcoming tourney in honor of Myrcella’s wedding. Ladies swooning over warriors was nothing new, with favor increasing with each fallen opponent. It was a paltry kind of attention and Sansa was surprised Clegane fell for it, though she supposed his scars and gruff personality must generally prevent much attention from coming his way.

 

Margaery, on the other hand, was a flirt with a penchant for spreading gossip, though she was careful to perform many acts of charity and was steadfast in her loyalty to her family. There had been talk of a match between she and Joffrey but Sansa knew her father had advised King Robert against it and, eventually, King Robert had relented. The Myrcella/Willas match had satisfied the desire for an alliance between both families and the young couple’s delight in one another was not likely to be repeated between Joffrey and Margaery.

 

This was not to say that Joffrey had not noticed his soon-to-be good sister; he certainly had, and she, him, but each preferred to be the center of attention and therefore were more rivals than lovers, though each knew that, together, they made an eye-catching pair.

 

Joffrey was not the only male to notice Margaery, of course. Her arrival at court had caused a stir. Her beautiful face, lithe figure, and teasing manners had attracted knights to her like flies to horse manure. Women drew close in hopes of sharing in her flirtations and, if possible, collecting her cast-off suitors. Sansa quickly drew her notice and, at first, she’d enjoyed Margaery’s lively company. Soon, though, after Margaery kept pressing her to kiss Tommen for sport, Sansa decided her carelessness with the feelings of others did her no credit and she allowed their association to dwindle. If Sandor Clegane knew Margaery’s true nature and still found her attractive, well, it was no business of Sansa’s.

 

*

 

“You’re quiet this morning, little bird.”

 

Sansa hated when he called her that. She’d merely been courteous to him when she’d first arrived in King’s Landing and he’d accused her of falseness, equating her to a bird who thoughtlessly chirped back whatever words it had been taught.

 

“As are you, _ser_ ,” she said, knowing he despised the honorific.

 

“The prince likes it when you’re sweet,” he reminded pointedly.

 

_I like it when you’re silent_ , she thought. She dropped her hand from his arm and was irritated when he chuckled. “I can walk the rest of the way myself. I’m sure you must be busy.” She doubted he was busy. He was favored by the entire royal family, and not unjustly if she felt like being fair about it, but her patience with his familiar manners ended when he, who was so often crass and crude, began giving her pointers on conduct.

 

He grabbed her hand and tucked it back under his arm, pinning her wrist to his side. “I was told to escort you. If you want me to carry you to the prince over my shoulder, I will.”

 

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

He gave her a sidelong look and all but dragged her to Joffrey’s solar, his long legs forcing her to stumble along beside him.

 

*

 

“Just wait until the tourney, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey said again with a smirk.

 

He’d spent the entire meal regaling her with promises of exceptional performance and a sure victory, despite the field being populated with men like Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Garlan Tyrell, and, she thought grudgingly, Sandor Clegane. Joffrey’s joust, his first, was not likely to be the stuff of song but she smiled and nodded and said what he wanted to hear. _Ugh_ , she thought, pulling in a corner of her mouth. _Clegane might be right. I am a little bird._

 

Clegane wore his own smirk behind the prince. His eyes were often on her and she knew he must be having similar thoughts. She looked away and resolved to pay him no more attention. To her dismay, Joffrey forced her to with his very next words.

 

“Dog, you can take Lady Sansa back her room,” Joffrey said when he was done eating.

 

Once again Clegane offered Sansa his arm and, once again, she barely rested her hand on his bicep.

 

“Do you want to go somewhere besides your room?” he asked in his rough voice once they were in the corridor.

 

The day had just begun and she had no intention of spending it inside. The weather was fine and there were men practicing for the tourney on the green. “I’m going to walk the grounds, thank you.” She dropped his arm and walked toward the stairs. When she reached them, she saw that he was where she’d left him and he was eyeing her with a frown. _What's gotten into him?_ she wondered.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa found the preparations for the tourney in full swing. Two days of jousts, melees, fencing, drinking, boasting, and celebrating would herald the wedding day. It was all very exciting and Sansa smiled as she walked the green, encountering many people she knew. Lord Renly took her around to show her the pavilions, which were blooming with the brightly colored flags and sigils of the competing knights. They were joined by Loras Tyrell and Sansa was sure a more handsome man couldn't be found in the Seven Kingdoms. His golden eyes, flowing hair, and lean build were complemented by his courtly address and swift smile. Loras and Renly ribbed each other, each assuring Sansa that it would be he who would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty, and Sansa smiled and protested that it would surely be a tie.

 

When Loras offered his arm, she accepted it with alacrity and could scarcely contain her pleasure at being tucked close to his side. He and Renly escorted her to the jousting field and amused her with their comments as the knights practiced. As they were exchanging barbs with Jaime Lannister, Sansa felt the uncomfortable pressure of someone’s gaze. It was as though someone was pressing a knuckle into the middle of the back of her neck.

 

Wanting to catch whoever it was, she instantly turned around and let her eyes range over the people behind her. Unfortunately, dozens of people were milling about the green and no one in particular seemed to be looking at her. She took a harder look. _Lord Tyrion . . . Clegane . . .  oh, there’s Jeyne . . . Lady Stokeworth and her daughters . . . Mace Tyrell . . . Lord Baelish  . . ._ Sansa realized her expression was severe and that she was looking at everyone suspiciously just as she heard Lord Renly say, “Your last pass was so weak that Lady Sansa couldn’t even bear to watch.”

 

“I believe it was your eyesore of a doublet that had her turning away. Leave crimson to the Lannisters,” Ser Jaime replied in an arch tone.

 

Sansa turned back to them at once. “I am very sorry, my lords, I –”

 

Lord Baelish appeared at her side. “You Lannisters care more for gold than crimson, I imagine,” the master of coin said smoothly. “And rightly so,” he added, his eyes slithering over Sansa. “Lady Sansa.” He swept into a low bow. Ser Jaime nodded at Sansa and left to rejoin the practice rounds before Lord Baelish continued. “Might I deprive you of one half of your company? Lord Renly has been so foolish as to suggest Ser Jaime will be bested by our good Ser Barristan tomorrow. The Imp has wagered generously and I know Lord Renly will wish to sweeten the pot even further.”

 

“Lady Sansa, with your permission?” Lord Renly favored her with a wide smile and bowed slowly without breaking his gaze.

 

Sansa couldn’t help but smile at him, so very polite and handsome as he was. “Of course, Lord Renly. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

 

“And I look forward to claiming a dance with you at the wedding. Until then.”

 

Sansa’s heart swelled until it was fit to burst. She loved dancing and on the only previous occasion she’d had to dance with Lord Renly, he’d been so kind, graceful, and sure of his steps that dancing with him had been the highlight of her night.

 

Lord Baelish, his lips stretched in a tight smile, gave her another nod and then turned away, mentioning an impossibly large sum that made Renly laugh.

 

Sansa looked back toward the lists and found Ser Loras giving her a wry smile. “Lord Renly is quite taken with you, Lady Sansa.”

 

“You are too kind. As is he.”

 

When she’d first come to King’s Landing, Sansa had been smitten with them both. Over time, and as she’d come to know them better, she realized that Lord Renly, while handsome, was perhaps more fizz than drink and that, deep down, made Sansa feel relieved that he was not on the throne. Loras was the epitome of masculine beauty but at times a little touchy and quick to find offense. She enjoyed harmless teasing with them but felt that they meant it perhaps even less than she did. She did not usually care for such behavior, since it often led to hurt feelings, but, with Renly and Loras, the joust of words seemed to be mutually understood. If anything, they seemed to enjoy her company the more because she was one of the few highborn ladies content with banter alone.

 

Sansa sighed to herself. With so much wedding talk in the air, she couldn’t help but think of getting married herself. _No, not married, not yet. It would be nice just to have someone to spend time with._ She’d had a few suitors since coming to court but no one who had truly captured her heart. In truth, she’d been overwhelmed by the attention she’d been given when first arriving in King’s Landing and was surprised and disappointed when the knights who’d paid her court seemed more interested in kissing her than in anything else. The memory dissatisfied her.

 

Loras had just started to say something, bringing Sansa back to the present, when a voice cut across the green.

 

“Sandor!”

 

Sansa smoothed her features and turned with Loras to watch as Margaery slinked toward Sandor Clegane with an enticing smile. She gripped his arms and pulled against him as though she would kiss him full on the lips. He stood straight, his height preventing him from having to do more to avoid her.

 

“Lord Baelish just told me you’re favored to win the melee and you’re tied with Ser Jaime for the joust. I told him I was sure you’d win all three events. In fact, I'm so sure . . .” And then, to Sansa’s very great relief, Margaery’s voice dropped so only Sandor could hear her, his face first betraying surprise and then interest. He rumbled a response that made Margaery laugh. Sansa looked away, piqued by the blatant display, by the sheer _stupidity_ of such a mummer's farce.

 

“Pardon me, Lady Sansa,” Loras said as he moved toward his sister, his eyes alone betraying his irritation.

 

“Of course.”

 

Loras greeted his sister cordially and, after a moment, managed to escort her away from Clegane. Sansa watched them go and then realized she’d been left behind. She glanced at Clegane and found him looking at her. Her eyes did a quick scan of the green and, to her astonishment, found that everyone she’d recognized earlier had disappeared. She began to walk back to the castle when Clegane suddenly fell in step beside her. Sansa suppressed a groan.

 

“Going back to the castle?” he asked.

 

Sansa cast about for an alternative destination but, having no business outside and not wishing to lie, simply said, “Yes.”

 

Clegane offered his arm and Sansa took it reluctantly She was less pleased still when Sandor seemed intent on speaking with every person they encountered. A jape with a knight here, a word with a man-at-arms there, a directive for his squire, an admonishment for some rowdy boys kicking up dirt; half an hour later and they were not much closer to the castle at all. Sandor introduced her to the few people they encountered who she didn’t know, as was proper, but her impatience was growing. Finally, after Clegane had discussed some business at length with the farrier, Sansa felt it necessary to say, “I really must be getting back to the castle now,” as she released his arm, her own feeling sore from being held high for so long.

 

“We’re going to the castle,” he said as he reached for her hand.

 

Sansa snatched it back before he could take hold of it and was instantly embarrassed by her rude behavior. “I’m sorry. I’m expected by my seamstress. Mustn’t be late.” With that she turned and walked away, her cheeks blazing. When she heard his mumbled apology, her face grew even hotter and it was stoked to an even higher degree when she realized that he was trailing along behind her.

 

 _Stop being discourteous and let him walk with you. No! He’ll only stop and talk to every last person on the way. He’s walking right behind you. Septa Mordane would be ashamed of you. So would Father. Father doesn't even like Clegane all that much! Now you’re just being mean. _Sansa stopped dead in her tracks and the dull clanking of Sandor’s armor stopped behind her.

 

“I beg your forgiveness. I thought you had more business to attend to before returning to the castle. If you’re going straight there, it would be my pleasure to have you escort me.”

 

Sandor stepped forward wordlessly and once again offered her his arm. Sansa was so rattled by her earlier break in courtesy that she couldn't think of much to say. She was surprised when, after a while, Sandor said, “You’re having a dress made for the wedding?”

 

“I am.”

 

He nodded and was quiet so long Sansa thought that was the extent of his interest in the matter. “What color will it be?”

 

 _What?_ “Purple. A dark purple.”

 

“Like the color of Dornish wine?” he asked with half a laugh.

 

 _What is he talking about?_ “I’m not really sure. Isn’t that more red?”

 

He shrugged and looked down at her, an unasked question in his eyes. Sansa looked up at him, confused. He furrowed his brow and looked away. To ease the awkward moment, Sansa said, “I’m very happy for Myrcella. I believe you’ve known her since she was a little girl . . .”

 

“I have. She’s grown into a proper lady. Your father arranged a good match for her.”

 

Sansa's eyebrows rose. For Sandor Clegane, that was nearly effusive. “Willas is very kind. He will make her happy.”

 

“He’d better,” Sandor commented, “or I’ll kill him.” He laughed but it was really more a snarl.

 

Sansa's face fell. She didn’t know what to say to a suggestion of murder and after a moment Sandor cleared his throat and grew quiet again. When they reached Sansa’s room, he said, “Will you be watching the tourney tomorrow?”

 

Sansa’s forehead creased. _The entire castle and most of the surrounding countryside will be watching the tourney tomorrow. Why wouldn’t I be there?_ “Yes.”

 

His mouth kind of twitched but he pressed his lips together, nodded, and said, “Good day, Lady Sansa,” as he took his leave.

 

*

 

The gown was a triumph. Sansa beamed at the seamstresses as she spun around, the full skirt whirling around her. The bodice fit perfectly and, if she thought so herself, the lower neckline flattered her décolletage and showed off her collarbones and neck to graceful effect.

 

“Beautiful!” Mara, senior seamstress, enthused. “All that’s left is the trim. Perhaps if you would care to step out on to the balcony, you could examine the ribbons in better light. The sun will make the stones sparkle even more.”

 

Sansa walked outside. It was a breezy, sunshine-filled day and the air felt wonderful on her exposed skin. The dress had exceeded her highest expectations and her excitement for the celebration increased.

 

“I think this one would look particularly nice,” Mara said, motioning for one of her assistants to bring the sample forward.

 

It was a dusky gray ribbon with clear, oval stones. The woman pinned it along Sansa’s neckline and the sun certainly did make the gems glitter. The gray, instead of looking drab, allowed the stones to shine and accented the plum color of her dress rather than competed with it.

 

“That’s very pretty, indeed,” Sansa said, delighted.

 

“My lady is kind to say so.”

 

As the seamstress was carefully removing the pins, a tingle went up Sansa’s spine. After having gone through several fittings, Sansa was used to the woman’s touch. No, this discomfort had a different source. Sansa looked surreptitiously at the windows in the castle but it was impossible to tell if anyone was watching her, yet she was sure someone was.

 

“No, I knew this one wouldn’t be right. My lady doesn’t care for it at all.”

 

Sansa was startled to realize another ribbon had been fitted to her gown and her silence had been mistaken for disapproval. She looked down and found an ivory ribbon stitched with gold and fixed with opals had been pinned to her neckline.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa said truthfully, “but maybe not with this gown.”

 

The older woman nodded. “You’re quite right, my lady. Now, this next one . . .”

 

The prickles along Sansa’s back made her wiggle in discomfort. _What is the matter with you? Who would be watching you?_ Her mind went to Margaery but she would simply bribe the seamstresses if she wanted advance information on what Sansa's gown looked like. _Who could it be?_ Her mind fluttered to Lord Baelish, who always made her feel naked, and Lord Varys, who was as opaque as he was softly spoken. She couldn't imagine why either of them cared what her gown looked like. They'd never watch themselves. They both had extensive spy networks in their employ. _Joffrey?_ His windows were in one of the towers so it was possible he could see her but _why_? Sansa felt mildly irritated. _That would be something he'd do._ She quietly blew out a breath as the next ribbon was presented to her.

 

“Hurry now!” commanded the seamstress. “My lady doesn’t have all day!”

 

“Oh no,” cried Sansa. “I’m in no hurry. Please, take your time.” Her eyes moved over the windows again but all she saw was the clouds’ reflections.

 

“My lady is kindness itself.”

 

_Your lady is suspicion itself._

  
The next ribbon was actually a wreath of tiny, fluffy gray feathers. Sansa liked the novelty of it but thought it might draw an indecent amount of attention to her breasts. The next ribbon, a series of silver rosettes, was thought too plain for an event of the wedding’s importance, and the last, a brighter purple hung with garnets, was just slightly flashier than Sansa felt comfortable with. In the end, and to the seamstresses’ satisfaction, she chose the first ribbon and stepped back inside to be helped from her gown.

 

*

 

"How was your fitting?" Arya asked later at dinner, after informing Sansa that she'd endured half a hundred pin pricks in the fitting of the gown she was being forced to wear.

 

"The dress is _beautiful_ ," Sansa said wistfully.

 

"But?"

 

"But what?"

 

Her sister gave her a shrewd look.

 

Sansa leaned closer. "You're going to think I'm crazy but I keep getting the feeling that someone is watching me."

 

Arya looked intrigued. "Who?"

 

"I don't know! Why would anyone want to watch me at all?"

 

Arya shrugged.

 

"Maybe Joffrey's doing it for sport . . . ?"

 

Arya rolled her eyes. "Subtlety isn't Joffrey's strong suit."

 

"If not him, it could be anyone. There are so many people in the city now. First it happened on the green and then, later, when I was on my balcony."

 

"Ask Father for a guard."

 

That seemed excessive and Sansa didn't want to excite alarm. "I want to know who it is before I do anything."

 

"I could watch you to figure out who it is."

 

"Arya! That's a brilliant idea! Would you mind?"

 

"No, it could be fun. Tomorrow, why don't you go stand by the well for a while? I'll watch from Father's solar and see if anyone's staring at you."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa milled around by the well feeling foolish. She could feel Arya's eyes on her from above and she wondered if the feel of Arya's gaze would cover the weight of her observer's eyes. Sansa greeted various people that she knew and listened to the gossip of the washerwomen. Apparently Ser Jaime was now favored to win the fencing tournament.

 

"What are you doing out here, Lady Sansa?"

 

Sansa turned at the snide voice to find Joffrey swaggering toward her with his sworn shield in tow. "I'm just enjoying the fine weather, my lord."

 

Joffrey gave a scathing look around the courtyard. "By the _well_?" he asked as Clegane seemed to make note of each face in the courtyard.

 

Sansa fought to keep a blush from overtaking her cheeks. "Yes."

 

Joffrey curled his lip in distaste. "Enjoy your day, Lady Sansa," he said sarcastically before sauntering off.

 

“Sure you’re not waiting for someone?” Clegane muttered under his breath.

 

Sansa’s mouth fell open at the unflattering insinuation.

 

He glared at her for a moment before giving a curt nod and following his prince.

 

After they had gone, Sansa waited for Arya to appear. When she did, she immediately asked, "Did you see anyone?"

 

"No."

 

Sansa sighed. "I didn't feel anyone watching me, either."

 

"Let’s try somewhere else.”

 

Sansa nodded. "If I feel like anyone's watching me. I'll pull my hair over my shoulder."  
  
*

 

The two of them ducked into the castle and sat in the great hall making strained conversation but doing so, especially without a third party, was so out of character for them both that they quickly retreated outside and eventually settled on going to the stables, Arya disappearing before they were in the thick of the activity there. The horses were being made ready for the tourney and knights and men-at-arms were everywhere, squires racing between them attending to last-minute details. Sansa was admiring the shiny coats of some of the Tyrells’ horses when someone called her name. She turned to find her father and the king walking toward her.

 

She curtsied to the king and gave her father a kiss on the cheek.

 

"Tell me, Sansa, which are you looking forward to more, the wedding or the tourney?" King Robert asked her.

 

As Sansa began to answer, the familiar tingle shimmied over her skin. She ached to look around but it was unheard of to ignore the king and Arya was watching anyway. "To both, your grace. They'll each be exciting in different ways," she answered as she pulled her long braid over her shoulder.

 

King Robert laughed from his belly and said, "Equally exciting, yes, but also equally dangerous."

 

"Your grace," Sansa's father intoned with a meaningful look around the busy stables.

 

"Oh, alright Ned, have it your way. Marriage is far more dangerous. There. Satisfied?" He laughed again and wished Sansa a good day before he moved on, hailing Garlan Tyrell loudly.

 

Sansa and her father spoke for a moment or two longer, making plans to watch the tourney together, and then Ned left to catch up with the king.

 

Sansa pretended to admire the horses a little longer as she made a determined but controlled exit from the area. She rounded a corner and, as soon as Arya caught up with her, she asked, "Anyone?"

 

" _Everyone_. I couldn't tell who was looking at King Robert and who was looking at you."

 

"Did you see anyone out of the ordinary?"

 

"No, but there are too many men here. They were _all_ looking at you before King Robert showed up anyway."

 

Sansa blew out a breath in frustration. She was going to argue Arya's point out of sheer modesty but getting to the bottom of this was more important. "There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it.”

 

“Whoever it is has access to all the same places you do,” Arya pointed out.

 

That made Sansa’s skin crawl a little. “You’re right.”

 

“Have you had any strange encounters lately?”

 

Sansa thought. Clegane had embarrassed her by asking if she was waiting for someone by the well but his rudeness was nothing new . . . “No, I can’t think of anything . . .”

 

“If you don’t want Father to assign you a guard, all you can do is keep track of when you feel like someone’s looking at you and try to figure it out based on where you are and when it’s happening."

 

Sansa sighed. “I guess you’re right."

 

“I'll follow you as much as I can.”

 

“Thank you. I'll continue to use the signal.”

 

*

 

The rest of that morning, Sansa lingered here and there in hopes of feeling the shivery sensation of someone’s eyes on her. She didn’t, though, any more than she noted anyone unusual in her presence. Eventually she had to return to her room to get ready for the tourney, though she kept her hair braided in case Arya was watching.

 

Her father met her at her room and, together, they walked to the green. Out of deference to Willas and at Myrcella’s request, the tourney was going to open with hawking and be followed by the archery competition. The evening would feature love songs and poetry, with the bride and groom offering a large ruby as a reward for the composition they enjoyed most. Sansa was looking forward to it all and hurried her father along.

 

She sat in amazement as hawk after hawk darted across the sky, seeming to pick its prey out of thin air. How one trained birds to do that, Sansa couldn’t begin to imagine. She stole a look at the raised dais where Myrcella and Willas were seated with the king and queen, Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower. Her friend was beaming, her radiant happiness making her even more beautiful than usual. Willas was watching the proceedings with obvious enjoyment and a trained eye. Sansa noticed with a twinge that he was holding Myrcella’s hand.

 

After the hawking was over, there was a brief intermission while the archery targets were put in place. Sansa and her father went to find some refreshments and fell into conversation with Garlan Tyrell and his wife Leonette Fossoway. Ned and Garlan stepped away after a few moments to speak with Kevan Lannister about something or other so Leonette and Sansa strolled around the green, sipping their drinks and talking about the high harp. As Leonette was telling her about some new songs she was learning, Sansa felt prickles scurry down her back. She stopped and tried to discern from which direction the sensation was coming, pulling her hair over her shoulder almost without thinking about it. No one in front of her seemed to be paying her any attention.

 

“Sansa, are you unwell?” Leonette’s eyebrows were drawn together with concern.

 

“Oh, yes. I beg your pardon. I thought I heard someone call my name.” That was an untruth but it gave Sansa a reason to look around. She scanned the crowd behind her and found a couple of men-at-arms leaning against a fence and looking appreciatively at her and Leonette. One in particular grinned and bowed at Sansa, causing his friends to snicker and mutter jokes.

 

“Ladies,” said the forward one.

 

Sansa and Leonette nodded, Sansa distractedly, Leonette frostily. _I don’t know him_ , was all Sansa could think as her eyes swept over others in the area. Lord Renly was laughing with Margaery Tyrell. Clegane was near them but he was glaring at the men-at-arms, not looking at her. Genna Lannister appeared to be lecturing her nephew Lancel while her husband Emmon glanced about nervously. A gaggle of silent sisters went by. Several men carrying bows streamed past as well.

 

“Do you know that man?” Leonette asked with distaste.

 

“No,” Sansa answered.

 

“Then we need not linger,” she said decisively, taking Sansa’s arm and leading her back toward the seating area.

 

Sansa’s skin tingled again but she didn’t dare turn back and soon the feeling passed. Her father and Garlan rejoined them and then Leonette departed with her husband. Sansa and Ned found seats and settled in to watch the archery competition. The zinging arrows, invisible in their flight until they landed with a resounding thud in the straw-packed targets, weren’t quite distraction enough for Sansa.

 

“Where’s Arya?” she asked her father.

 

“She’s here somewhere. I saw her go by right after I left you and Lady Leonette”

 

“Oh. I thought she’d join us.”

 

Her father gave an irritated-yet-resigned nod.

 

Hours later, the archery purse having gone to a red-headed commoner, Sansa settled in for the evening’s lavish meal. Arya had waved off her questions about any observers and dug into her meal with near-unseemly haste. The food, as ever, was rich and plentiful but, given the occasion, the presentation was ostentatious almost beyond endurance. A seafood stew was served in gilt-edged scallop shells. Meats drenched in Dornish wine were accompanied by roasted peaches and fireplums and came in trenchers shaped like stags. Whipped potato hawks were feathered with slices of rare mushrooms. Even the butter was pressed to resemble roses. Those assembled burst into applause when the last course was served. Each guest was presented with a golden spun-sugar nest in which sat two wine-laced pears carved to resemble lovebirds. The pears had clove eyes and were surrounded by eggs which proved to be filled with a variety of creams, custards, and jellies. It was so sweet, Sansa could barely stomach it. _I wish they’d served lemoncakes._

 

The heavy meal was making Sansa sleepy so her attention was not quite as strict as it might have been for the singing and recitation that followed. She sat straight and tried to give every sign of being agreeably engaged but, after the hundredth reference to golden hair, golden roses, and golden futures, she felt she could take no more. So all-encompassing was the love between Myrcella and Willas, to hear the singers tell it, there would never be another like it. The thought depressed Sansa. As happy as she was for her friend, she felt very much alone in the hall. The crowd had thinned out some as the hour grew later and the drink flowed more slowly so, while the applause was still strong for the latest singer, Sansa discreetly took her leave. Taking little-used corridors and staircases, she arrived at her chosen exit and stepped out into the night air, making her way toward the Serpentine. Hearing voices and wishing to avoid forced cheerfulness, she backed into a dark corner.

 

The giggle of a woman floated along the air to her and was followed by the familiar rough tones of Sandor Clegane. She saw his head appear above the top step moments before Margaery's. "It's cold, my lady. You should wear a cloak."

 

Margaery, dressed in only a thin shift, pressed herself closer to his side. "You'll keep me warm, won't you?" She slid her fingertips along the edge of his cloak.

 

For a horrifying moment, Clegane seemed to look directly through the shadows at Sansa. "Let's go inside," was all he said, leading Margaery away.

 

For a long time, Sansa didn't move. What she'd witnessed had bruised her. She didn't want to be lonely but neither did she want to resort to inappropriate attire and meaningless flirtations. There were plenty of knights, she knew, who'd be happy to kiss her and use her for their own gratification, but she was growing increasingly doubtful that she'd find someone with whom to spend time who would be satisfied merely with her company. Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm. Frustration rolled around in her chest, all knees and elbows, making her not quite jealous of Margaery or desirous of, gods forbid, Clegane, but why was it so easy for others to find companionship? _What they have isn't companionship_ , she thought, the taste of sour grapes in her mouth. Sansa tried not to care, to be satisfied with her solitary state, but the sight of Margaery pressed close to Clegane lingered in her mind for the remainder of her walk back to her room.

 

*

 

Sansa’s discontentment followed her to bed and, after tossing and turning for far too long, she threw on a cloak and went out. She thought about going to the godswood but her father had warned her away from there at night. She didn’t want to be alone in the dark anyway. She wanted to be distracted. She decided to go up to the roof.

 

_Yes, this is just the place_ , Sansa thought, satisfied, as she took in the view. She gazed over the city’s rooftops and saw bright pops of fire here and there. Her eyes travelled along the Blackwater Rush and felt soothed by the expanse of the bay. She leaned against the parapet and tried to relax. Something about being above everyone else in the city accented her loneliness. A feeling of self-pity began to take hold of her but Sansa tried to shake it off. _You have nothing to feel sorry about. So what if you don’t have anyone special to spend time with? You have many other privileges . . ._ Her jaw started to wobble. It was wrong to want something when she already had so much. Yet, was it so wrong to want _this_? She looked out again and imagined under each little roof a happy couple laughing together, maybe holding hands, delighting in each other’s company, secure in the knowledge that they were loved and had someone to love in return. She felt cold and alone, isolated, shut out and excluded from the most basic sort of happiness. It made her heart clench and she sniffed and then sniffed again and cuffed away a tear. As she was struggling with her misery, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

 

Sansa froze, barely drawing air into her lungs. All her senses were on alert. She knew she was alone and yet felt she was not alone at all. She listened as hard as she could and heard nothing. Sansa remained still. The feeling of being watched hadn’t faded but logic seemed to dictate that she must be alone. She looked over her shoulder. In the middle of the roof was a large chimney. She couldn’t see what was on the other side of it, of course, but she supposed it was possible someone was there. She considered poking her head around the side of it but, still ill at ease, she thought it better to go back to her room. As she tiptoed toward the stairs, she heard, “Little bird.”

 

Sansa’s scream was stifled by Sandor Clegane’s huge hand. “Quiet, girl. What’s the matter with you?” He released her mouth and gripped her upper arms, fixing her with a searching look.

 

“I - I didn’t know you were here.”

 

“You didn’t look.”

 

Sansa felt a little piqued by that. “You should have made your presence known,” she said, shaking off his hands and pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

 

“I was here first.”

 

Sansa’s eyes roved over the roof. _Why would you - ?_ “Are you waiting for Margaery?” _That must be it. It’s very private here._ The thought saddened her.

 

Sandor turned away with a blunt, “No.”

 

“Then why -”

 

“Were you _crying_?”

 

That caught Sansa off-guard. She stood straighter. “No, I was just . . . the smoke caught in my throat, is all.”

 

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” That was true enough.

 

“Not meeting someone?”

 

Sansa wrinkled her nose and gave a curt, “Of course not.”

 

“You’re the only lady in the city who wouldn’t,” he muttered.

 

Sansa wasn’t sure if she was being insulted. She had turned to go when he added, “So why couldn’t you sleep?”

 

She shrugged.

 

He snorted. “I can understand that.” He produced a flagon from seemingly out of nowhere and took a long, slow drink from it. When he was done, he tipped it toward her but Sansa shook her head.

 

“Do you often walk the Keep at night when you can’t sleep?”

 

“No. I don’t usually have such trouble.”

 

He hmph’ed at that and took another drink. Then he leaned one elbow on the parapet and looked at her. Nodding toward the city spread out below them, he asked, “What were you looking at?”

 

Sansa took a step toward him and looked again at the sea of roofs. They overlapped each other like scales and the whole city seemed to breathe like one great beast. “I was thinking about all the people out there.”

 

“What about them?”

 

Sansa was not about to admit she was feeling sorry for herself, envious of the love she was sure every resident of King’s Landing but her enjoyed. “I was wondering if they’re happy,” she mumbled.

 

“Happy?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You got out of bed to wonder if the people of King’s Landing are _happy_?” He took another drink and regarded her with a mocking smile.

 

“Well, what were _you_ doing up here?”

 

“I was thinking about the tourney.”

 

That surprised her. “Why? Are you worried you’ll get hurt?”

 

He laughed. “No.”

 

“Do you think you’ll win?”

 

“Do _you_ think I’ll win?”

 

Sansa shrugged. “You’re favored to win.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

“I think you’ll do very well.”

 

A neutral expression froze on his face and he regarded her for a moment before looking away and resting his forearms on the stone of the parapet.

 

“Margaery thinks you’ll win.” Sansa couldn’t help but remember with distaste that scene on the green the previous day.

 

Clegane pushed himself up off the wall. “Aye, she does.”

 

“That must be very encouraging.”

 

Sandor gave her an impatient look. “She said if I win she’ll -” and then he alluded to something Sansa couldn’t define but was certain was sexual in nature.

 

Her mouth fell open in disgust. She was aghast that a lady would say such a thing to a man, much less act on it. Suddenly the conversation had grown entirely too personal and, far from distracting her from her earlier loneliness, she now felt it more acutely than ever. Sansa’s eyes scoured the ground, searching for something to say. “Well. You didn’t seem to mind. Yesterday. When she said it.”

 

Sandor chuckled. “Few men would turn that down.”

 

Sansa tried not to sound snippy when she replied, “Few men could win a tourney.”

 

“Aye, that’s so,” he answered, nodding.

 

She nearly asked why he’d chosen to inflict the revolting details of his conversation with Margaery on her but assumed it was merely his typical crude behavior coming forward. Wishing to move the conversation to higher moral ground, she said, “Still, her faith in you must be . . . reassuring.”

 

Clegane pulled up the corner of his mouth and rolled one large shoulder in a careless shrug. “Faith,” he spat.

 

Sansa was stunned to realize that he didn’t seem to care all that much about Margaery. “It doesn’t?”

 

“For all I know, she made the same offer to Jaime Lannister.”

 

“No . . . she wouldn’t . . .”

 

Sandor looked her directly in the eye and for the longest moment seemed on the verge of saying something. Instead, he glanced at the sky and commented, “It’s late. Come. I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  
Sansa nodded and took his offered arm. He walked her slowly and carefully down the steps, holding both her elbow and her hand, and then escorted her to the Tower of the Hand. Sansa felt a different kind of turmoil than she had when she’d left her room. Inappropriate though it was, she wondered if Sandor would take Margaery up on her offer. She was surprised that it seemed unjust to think he would.


	4. Chapter 4

Excitement was thick the next morning. The first event was the melee. Sansa cringed over and over as the men pounded away on each other with every sort of weapon available. So many men had entered the field that three separate rounds were held with five of the top-performing fighters from each round advancing to a final competition. In the end, the Hound, armed with his own sword and a war hammer he’d taken from an opponent, delivered a rib-crushing blow to a man almost as tall and heavily muscled as himself, and, dropping the point of his sword to the man’s belly, forced him to yield.

 

The crowd erupted. It had been a brilliant start to the day, with each match being hard-fought and many moments already being recounted and exclaimed over by those in the stands. The Hound didn’t seem to notice. He was scanning the crowd, frowning. His tunic was slashed open on one side and a rivulet of blood streamed down his temple. Strands of his sweat-soaked black hair stuck to his face. His attention was caught by Myrcella, though, who came forward with the champion’s laurel, yellow roses from the Reach. He stood straight and tall as she approached, holding the war hammer and sword behind his back. Sansa couldn’t hear every word of her friend’s brief speech but it was clear she was proclaiming Clegane the winner of the melee. As more raucous cheering rushed forth from the spectators, Clegane accepted the laurel, setting his weapons down and then taking a knee before the princess. To Sansa’s surprise, he took Myrcella’s hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. Myrcella smiled at him and seemed to comment on his wound. The Hound stood as he dabbed his thick fingers to his temple, looked at the blood, and said something to Myrcella that caused her to laugh and look relieved. Myrcella turned away from him and applauded, causing the onlookers to do the same. Clegane gave a few nods to the crowd and walked off the melee field toward his squire, who was waiting with a flagon and his scabbard.

 

The crowd dispersed and Sansa with them. The next event, the fencing competition, would take place on another part of the green. It wasn’t set to begin for over an hour so Sansa passed some of the time with Jeyne and a few of the other girls they’d befriended. Once the hour was up, Sansa returned to the stands reserved for guests of the royal family and waited in anticipation for the first two men to take the field.

 

The fencing competition was marked by many a flourish. Once again the Hound performed well but Garlan Tyrell bested him, and was himself beat by Jaime Lannister. Ser Loras grinned as he landed a winning stroke against Lord Renly, though Sansa clapped wildly for them both. In the final match between Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan Selmy, Sansa kept quiet, knowing Lord Renly had a substantial stake in the outcome. He was leaning against the fence at the bottom of the stands, watching the match intently. When Ser Jaime gave a deft flick of his wrist and touched his sword point to Ser Barristan’s chest, Lord Renly howled. Sansa heard the nearby laughter of Lord Baelish and saw Tyrion Lannister raise his cup in a mock toast. Fortunately, Renly’s misery was short-lived. He regained his spirits quickly and invited Sansa to dine with him and Loras in his pavillion, teasing that the loss of his entire fortune would be nothing at all to bear so long as he could gaze upon her pretty face. Sansa laughed heartily.

 

The cool interior of the tent was refreshing in the midday heat. A light meal of cold meats and cheeses with some fruit and chilled wine was served as they chatted and japed with each other. One of the Tyrells’ bannermen, Ser Hugh Beesbury, ducked inside to greet Ser Loras and seemed captivated by Sansa’s presence. They were introduced and Ser Hugh had many complimentary things to say before offering to walk Sansa to the jousting yard. The competition would begin in the mid-afternoon and, since both Lord Renly and Ser Loras were competing, they needed to ready themselves and their horses.

 

Sansa took Ser Hugh’s arm and let him guide her through the maze of tents, listening as he expressed his excitement for the tourney and his pleasure at being in King’s Landing. He was handsome and agreeable, if perhaps a little talkative. He stopped, at one point, in a secluded space at the edge of the pavilions and smiled at Sansa.

 

“You are quite beautiful, Lady Sansa.”

 

Sansa blushed.

 

“May I take this opportunity to claim a dance with you at the wedding celebration tomorrow? If you’re not betrothed, that is.”

 

Sansa tingled all over. As she was agreeing to dance with him, the tingles she was feeling turned to prickles. She looked quickly to her right and left and found nothing but walls of canvas.

 

“Of course you’re eager to take your place for the joust,” Ser Hugh said, misinterpreting her swiveling head.

 

“Oh no. I just . . . thought I saw someone.”

 

Ser Hugh looked around and, seeing nothing, smiled at her and offered his arm. He chattered the entire way to the yard and then gave her an unusually deep bow. He’d just begun to straighten up when he bent low again and said, “Lady Margaery.”

 

“Ser Hugh, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

 

After she made a few inquires about mutual friends in the Reach, Margaery took Sansa’s hand and guided her toward the dais. As daughter of the Hand and a friend of the bride, Sansa had been accorded a seat near the dais’s end. To her surprise, Margaery sat next to her. As the groom’s sister, she should have been seated in the middle. “Sansa! How much fun we’ll have catching up with each other during the joust!”

 

Sansa forced a smile onto her face. “So much fun.”

 

The joust began and Margaery gripped her arm and shrieked during each pass and strike. When she wasn’t shrieking, she was interrogating Sansa about Ser Hugh and which knights she found attractive. With a pounding head, Sansa looked to the field for the final tilt. Both combatants were called to the center of the yard to be acknowledged for their performance in the tourney. This final round would decide the champion, with Sandor Clegane winning the melee, Jaime Lannister victorious in the fencing competition, and, now, both of them in the final joust.

 

Even with his visor raised, the Hound’s face was in shadow yet, somehow, Sansa felt like he was looking directly at her. _He must be looking at Margaery._ That was the only explanation that made sense, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that his eyes were on her. She shifted in her seat and looked down. When she looked back, he was striding toward his horse at the far end of the list. He mounted and sat, looking still, dark, and intimidating. Even his horse seemed to glare at everyone. At the other end, Jaime Lannister sat astride his horse looking handsome, golden, and perfect. It was a close thing, and only decided by a last-second shift in his weight, but the Hound won the joust, Ser Jaime’s shield exploding into sawdust on impact.

 

Following custom, Clegane was given a rose laurel with which to crown a Queen of Love and Beauty. Atop his huge horse, he was even with the dais and Sansa’s heart stopped as he seemed to be approaching her. _He can’t mean me._ But no, he extended his gauntleted hand and offered the flowers. With an expectant laugh, Margaery reached out and took them, looking through her eyelashes at Sansa, the corners of her mouth tight as her smile froze. Sansa knew the sneer was a challenge but this was not a prize worth fighting over. Sansa simply smiled and clapped as Clegane rode away and Margaery stood and curtsied to the cheering crowd.

 

As King Robert strode to the center of the field and said some words about the joy of having his house joined with that of the Tyrells, Margaery turned to Sansa and said, “For a moment, it looked like you were going to reach for the flowers.”

 

“No, I was certain they were intended for you.”

 

Margaery gave Sansa a measured look and seemed satisfied by her words. “Ser Hugh will bring you flowers if he knows you like them. Shall I tell him which are your favorites?”

 

Sansa ignored Margaery’s condescending tone. “That’s very kind and I thank you but, no. In the north, men who are serious in their attentions toward a lady always bring wheat or barley. It will last the winter and flowers, however pretty,” she eyed the blooms in Margaery’s hand, “are only temporary - the more they’re handled, the faster they fade.”

 

Margaery narrowed her eyes but Sansa had long grown tired of being with her. “King Robert is summoning you.”

 

Margaery’s head whipped around, a bright smile on her face. She stood and moved to the middle of the field, reveling in her coronation, waving to the commons, and soaking up the attention. Sansa thought it odd that Clegane didn’t reappear.

 

That evening’s feast was again ostentatious and was followed by jugglers, acrobats, jesters, and fools. Sansa was greeted by Ser Hugh during the meal and bore the evening more easily than she had the one prior. By the time she crawled into bed late that night, sleep overtook her with no resistance.

 

*

 

Finally, the wedding day had arrived. Sansa dressed carefully, delighted with her gown, and sat as still as she could while her maid swept her hair off of her face and pinned it at the crown of her head. Ringlets spiraled down her back. As tiny pins with stones matching those on the trim of her gown were placed here and there in her hair, a note in Arya’s handwriting was delivered for Sansa. She waited until her maid stepped away before opening it. It contained only four words: _I think it’s Clegane._

 

Sansa sat, puzzled. _Why would he be watching me? He sees me practically every day . . . Arya must be mistaken._

 

The presentation of her jewelry distracted her and, before she knew it, it was time to leave for the Great Sept of Baelor.

 

The ceremony was long and elaborate. The sept was filled with golden roses and white lilies that perfumed the warm air most wonderfully. Myrcella’s gown was encrusted with pearls and she’d chosen to carry a bouquet of herbs which set off her green eyes. Sansa hung on every word spoken by the High Septon, enchanted by the beauty of it all and not even attempting to soothe the ache in her heart. As Myrcella and Willas walked back down the aisle, Sansa stole a look at Ser Hugh, who grinned at her.

 

The Great Hall was mobbed. The press and scent of bodies in the heat was broken up by the large arrangements of flowers. Eventually everyone found their places and servants laden with trays of food moved into the hall.

 

Unlike the previous evenings’ menus, which had been selected by the queen, the wedding feast was modest. The bride and groom had chosen to make enormous donations of food to the less fortunate residents of King’s Landing, with meals being served at various points throughout the capital. The wedding guests made do with spicy shrimp served in cups of buttery lettuce, a salad of sweet fruit and salted nuts, filets of beef glazed with wine, white fish scented with orange and capers, chickens stuffed with rice, cherries, and carrots, and, lastly, cinnamon cakes thickly iced and decorated with sugar roses.

 

Better than the food, though, was the dancing. Lord Renly claimed her for the first one and as he whirled and spun her around and even kissed her on the cheek, Sansa felt caught up in a surge of happiness. The only thing missing was an attachment to her partner. The realization dulled her pleasure but she broadened her smile and laughed until she meant it. Ser Hugh came forward next. He held her close and charmed her as they moved across the floor and Sansa was giddy at his attention. Ser Loras maintained a respectful distance and guided her through the steps deftly, all the while making her laugh with his running commentary on the dancers around them. Sansa danced with her father, Joffrey, Tommen, and somehow even ended up in the arms of Jaime Lannister. Never before had she attended so festive and lively a wedding. There was one mood amongst the crowd and it was joy. At one point Margaery had even passed by in the embrace of Sandor Clegane. Feeling a little dizzy, she accepted a glass of wine from Lord Renly and stood to the side with him and Ser Loras as the wedding guests twirled around the floor.

 

Once she’d caught her breath, she asked Renly about the celebration’s opening event - something she had never seen before. Willas and Myrcella had had a tray of food sent from their own table to Sandor Clegane, acknowledging him as the wedding tourney champion. He’d accepted it with a bow and, completing the tradition, had sent to the bride an engraved knife from which she ate for the remainder of the feast.

 

“Myrcella probably picked out that knife months ago,” Renly said. “It was given to Clegane to present to her, the implication being that her champion will protect her, allowing her to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like a good meal.”

 

“But what about the groom?”

 

“Ahh, Lady Sansa, the joy of receiving his wife’s hand in marriage is gift enough for any man.”

 

“Ridiculous,” muttered Loras.

 

As though appearing from thin air, Sandor Clegane was suddenly at her side.

 

“Speaking of which, here’s the man himself,” Renly joked. “Come to break a few toes, Clegane?”

 

“Want me to start with yours?”

 

“I’ve had so much wine tonight, I doubt I’d even notice but, if you insist,” and he made to take Sandor’s arm and lead him on to the dance floor.

 

Loras snickered. “Come, Lady Sansa,” he said, his eyes bright with wine, “I believe it’s time you and I show them how it’s done.” With that he spun her out on to the floor and lead her through a dance with complicated steps.

 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor Clegane move away from Lord Renly and seat himself at a bench with no company but a flagon of wine. She felt rather embarrassed by her friends’ behavior. She hadn’t needed rescuing any more than Clegane had needed to be mocked. One didn’t become a better dancer by standing against the wall and, besides, the floor was so crowded that poor footwork could be easily hidden. She resolved to ask the Hound to dance with her.

 

Ser Hugh claimed her hand again and his steady stream of compliments gave way to plans for the morrow and Sansa nearly forgot about her resolution. Nearly, but she’d made up her mind. Making her way through the horde of revelers, she suddenly remembered Arya’s note and ended up standing before Clegane without a thing to say. He eyed her and took a measured sip from his flagon.

 

_‘Why are you following me?’ No, too rude._

 

“Run out of partners, little bird?”

 

“No . . . I mean . . . I would like to dance with you, yes.” Sansa’s face grew hot. He hadn’t asked her to dance.

 

He swung his legs over the bench and stood. After dancing with so many other men, Sansa had somehow forgotten just how tall and imposing a man the Hound actually was. She curled her fingers around his bicep and attempted to break through the crowd. It was hard to part so many people and after saying, “Excuse me,” for the tenth time to no avail, Sandor took her hand in his and led the way himself, easily making a path through the throng.

 

Once they’d secured a space on the dance floor, Sandor took Sansa into his embrace and held her so close their midsections brushed against each other. His grip on her hand and waist were firm but not demanding and he led her in a simple box step.

 

Sansa found his proximity distracting. He smelled . . . nice, and his hair was loose and somewhat parted in the middle rather than being combed over to one side. His expansive chest was at her eye level and Sansa was startled to notice that his tunic was a dark purple. She couldn’t recall seeing him in that color before. She dragged her eyes up to his face and found him looking at her intently.

 

“How did you enjoy the tourney?”

 

“Very much. It was the best I’ve ever attended. You performed magnificently,” Sansa enthused, meaning every word.

 

A shadow crossed his face. “Then why didn’t you want the flowers?”

 

For a moment, Sansa had no idea what he meant. “You gave them to Lady Margaery.”

 

“She took them. That doesn’t mean they were meant for her.”

 

Sansa couldn’t think of a thing to say besides, “Oh.”

 

Sandor held her eye for a moment without responding and then looked over her head at the crowd. He pulled her closer and mechanically went through a few more steps. Sansa could feel the heat of him through his tunic and his breath on her ear when he leaned down and murmured, “I didn’t see you after the melee.”

 

Sansa’s brows drew together. “I was there. It was an impressive victory.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d be impressed by something as bloody as a melee.”

 

“Blood doesn’t bother me.”

 

Sandor drew back and looked down at her, a glint in his eyes. Prickles scurried over her skin and her heart seemed to pick up its tempo. “Just bad manners?”

 

Sansa couldn’t help but smile at his teasing. It was so unexpected.

 

“You did fight very well today. I don’t think I could have picked up that war hammer let alone swung it like you did.”

 

His hand pressed a little harder against her back and the corner of his mouth twitched as he smiled down at her. “You’d have no need to pick it up if I were around.”

 

Sansa blushed. Where was the crass, crude Hound who so often spoke to her mockingly? His touch was surprisingly gentle and, when he spoke, his tone was as tender as his voice was rough. _Why are you watching me?_ It was on the tip of her tongue. He was clearly in a good mood so maybe he’d answer. She looked up him. His face really was a ruin but how had she not noticed his eyes before? They were a pretty shade of gray. She moved her hand along his shoulder, up toward his neck, and felt the dense muscles there. She gently pushed his hair back over his shoulder and laid her palm across the back of his neck. He tilted his head back into it just a little and she gave him a slight squeeze. _Even his neck is strong!_ Sansa had never felt anything like it and her heart stopped for a moment when a different kind of look settled on his face. It was a serious look, a look suggesting he was holding something back, but barely.

 

“Are your arms getting sore?” he asked as he stepped back and took her hands in his, gently leading her into a spin. As Sansa came around to face him again, she found his eyes traveling up her body and back to her face.

 

“I didn’t know you danced,” she said, all too aware that something large and unwieldy was filling in the space between them.

 

He shrugged and guided her hands back to his shoulders. His arms encircled her waist and he pressed her against the hard length of him. Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm. The dance floor was so crowded there was hardly room to move. There seemed to be jostling all around them but none of it reached Sansa in the circle of Sandor’s arms. She wasn’t sure but, for just a moment, it felt like he almost rested his cheek against the top of her head.

 

“You must be very tired,” she commented. “Competing in three events and in several rounds of each . . .”

 

“Dancing with you isn’t quite as hard as fighting off fourteen other men.” The trace of a smile played across his lips as he looked down at her.

 

Sansa smiled and ducked her head and, for just a moment, allowed her cheek to rest against his chest. His arms tightened around her and they spent the rest of the song in silence. It wasn't until the music faded away that Sansa realized they'd stopped dancing all together.

 

Before the musicians began to play the next number, Sandor, holding her hands, looked at her and said, “Lady Sansa . . .”

 

“Lady Sansa!” called a much different voice.

 

Margaery appeared in the company of her father. She cut in on Sansa, who had no choice but to relinquish her hold on Sandor’s strong hands and accept the sweaty palms of Mace Tyrell. As Mace lead her with lumbering steps, Sansa saw Margaery raise a suggestive eyebrow at Sandor and purr, “The hour grows late.”

 

Sansa blinked as the spell broke and Sandor and Margaery were swallowed up by the crowd. Confusion smothered her previous high spirits and suddenly the night couldn’t end soon enough. Sansa was thankful when her dance with Mace Tyrell was the last of the evening. With considerable fanfare from the musicians, the bedding was called for and Myrcella and Willas were swept away in the hands of their well-wishers. Sansa couldn’t help but notice Clegane and Margaery weren’t among them.

 

The crowd quickly dispersed after that, various invitations to continue the festivities elsewhere being shouted back and forth.

 

“May I, Lady Sansa?” asked a very worn-looking Loras Tyrell.

 

“I thank you,” Sansa replied, grateful for an escort. Her head was spinning and she longed to be alone.

 

Loras seemed to feel the same and led her against the crowd and through a door not open to the public. It gave way to a corridor that ran between the Great Hall and the kitchens and was generally used by servants.

 

The hallway was not empty, as Sansa had hoped. Two drunk men-at-arms were weaving their way along. She squeezed Loras's arm a little tighter.

 

"'S a fine wedding," one of them slurred before taking a messy gulp from the tankard he was carrying.

 

"M'lady," said the other noticing her. "Care to dansh? " He took a few clumsy steps and crashed into the wall before sliding down to the floor and rolling on to his back. "Get on top. Shave shome time."

 

"Ser," Loras intoned angrily. "This lady is in my company. How dare you speak to her in that manner?"

 

"Wah?" the first man asked blearily.

 

The second man gave some feeble thrusts of his hips. "Be better than the prinshesh ish getting tonight." His laugh dissolved into a revolting belch.

 

Loras drew his sword. "That's my brother you're insulting -"

 

"Please, my lord, they're just drunk." Sansa knew Myrcella would be upset if there was bloodshed on her wedding day.

 

Heavy and rapid footsteps behind them made them both turn. Sandor Clegane was barreling up the hall with murder in his eyes. "This girl is the Hand's daughter. A Stark of a line 8,000 years old and a daughter of Winterfell. Mind your filthy tongue or I'll remove it for you."

 

"Meant no offensh, sher," blubbered the man on the ground. "Jusht offering -"

 

The first man seemed to sober up a little. "Ge' up, Earl. Ge' up now. He meant no slight, sers, lady. Too much wine is all."

 

Sandor reached down, grabbed the prone man by the front of his tunic, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him toward his companion. "Go! And know you were spared by the lady’s kindness.”

 

After Earl and his friend scrambled out of the hall, Sansa, Loras, and Clegane stood in silence, catching their breaths.

 

Loras recovered first and gave Sandor a peeved look. “Where is Margaery? I thought you were escorting her -”

 

“She’s safe in her room.”

 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. _So you didn’t . . ._ She blushed. It was well and truly none of her business.

 

“I thank you,” Loras said stiffly. Then he offered his arm and said, “Lady Sansa?”

 

“Thank you,” she said over her shoulder to Clegane as Loras lead her away.

 

*

  
Back in her room, Sansa lay awake in bed, overwhelmed by all that had happened that day. _Why are you following me?_ Sansa would have to ask Arya why she thought it was Clegane. _And if it is? Well . . ._ Sansa decided, _two can play that game . . ._  


 


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re certain?”

 

“For the hundredth time, yes!”

 

“But why?”

 

“Because he was the only one who was around more than once when you felt like someone was watching you.”

 

“But he sees me almost every day. It doesn't make sense that he’d follow me.”

 

Arya shrugged, her interest gone now that the mystery was solved. “I don’t know. Why would _you_ follow someone who you see every day?”

 

Sansa had just shrugged at the time but, after Arya had left, she thought more seriously about her question. Why _would_ she follow someone? To gauge their personality when they didn't know they were being observed, she decided. To learn more about them. Suddenly a forgotten memory from Winterfell came back to her. She and Jeyne had taken a liking to a handsome stableboy. They’d hidden in the hayloft to spy on him as he went about his work. They’d given each other significant looks whenever he ate his meals in the great hall. And, it shocked Sansa that she’d forgotten it until now, she and Jeyne had followed him one afternoon when he went to the winter town. They’d giggled together at the sheer excitement of seeing him and admired and commented on his every move.

 

Sansa felt thunderstruck. _He likes me??_ That didn't seem possible. _He’s a man grown, not a love-struck young girl with nothing to do!_ Immodest as it was, she couldn't think of another reason why he’d follow her around.

 

Sansa felt more confused than ever. He’d been so . . . kind to her the previous evening. And she’d felt something in his arms that she had never expected to -- pleasure. She could hardly admit it even to herself but she had enjoyed the sensation of being held by him, of having his rumbly voice close to her ear, of feeling the strength of his muscles. He was known far and wide for his prowess on the battlefield, he’d just won the best tourney held in recent memory, his status as an eligible bachelor was never likely to be higher, and, for reasons she couldn't fathom, he liked _her_.

 

Sansa shook her head. It made no matter. He was entangled with Margaery and she, her spirits rose, had plans that afternoon with Ser Hugh. Still, fair was fair. She’d see if she could learn anything by following Sandor Clegane.

 

*

 

He wasn’t hard to find. All she had to do was follow the sound of orders being barked in the training yard. Sansa crept around and saw a large group of squires lined up for training. Clegane was leading them through drills and she could tell by the wide-eyed looks of the boys that this was both unusual and an intimidating privilege.

 

“Thrust like you mean it! Do you want your sword to glance off your enemy or would you rather kill the bastard?”

 

“Kill him,” mumbled a few of the boys.

 

“Then practice it that way! You and you, face off over here. You two, over there. Break into pairs. That’s it. You’re the only one left, huh? Fine, you’ll spar with me.”

 

The squire blanched and looked longingly at the other pairs.

 

“Do it like I showed you. Arm straight, eyes on your target. Now, go.”

 

The boy got into position and attempted to stab Sandor’s belly with the tip of his blunted sword. His move was parried in an instant and Clegane stood tall and looked down at the boy incredulously.

 

Sansa held her breath.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I was trying to kill you,” came the unconvincing reply.

 

“I told you to aim for the heart. You barely got your sword above my belt.”

 

“You’re taller than most men . . .” The boy quailed under Sandor’s disapproval.

 

To Sansa’s shock, Clegane squatted down before the boy and said quietly, “That’s logic. There’s no time for logic in battle. Believe that. You aim for the enemy you’ve got, not the idea of the one you should have.” He stood and walked a few paces away. “I’m the enemy you’ve got. Try to kill me.”

 

The boy aimed higher this time and Clegane nodded. He gave the boy some pointers and sparred with him a little more before calling over one of the other boys and telling the first squire to compare how it felt to fight someone of his own height after fighting someone as tall as Sandor.

 

Clegane moved amongst the pairs, making adjustments to their form as he went. Sansa was surprised. He seemed genuinely interested in teaching them. There was no coddling and certainly no fooling around, and the boys never relaxed, but the atmosphere wasn’t as harsh as Sansa would have expected it to be. Clegane commanded their attention every moment and Sansa’s as well.

 

Just when Sansa forgot she was supposed to be in hiding, the master-at-arms arrived and thanked Sandor for spending some time with the squires. Clegane stayed to watch a few minutes longer as the boys were put through more traditional fencing drills and then he turned and walked back inside the castle.

 

Sansa ducked behind a corner and watched him pass. She let him get a good lead and then edged along after him. He was making his way toward the residential section of the castle. _He must be going to his room._ She had no idea where that was and felt a little curious. When he passed into a long corridor, she hung back, waited for his footsteps to fade, counted to ten, and then scurried along on her tiptoes. She barely saw him enter a room midway down the next hall. Without knowing why, Sansa made a note of his room’s location and how she'd gotten there.

 

Her mind was in a spin when she got back to her own room and went through the motions of getting ready for her outing with Ser Hugh.

 

*

 

An hour later, dressed in a fresh gown of light green, she met Ser Hugh in front of the great hall and allowed him to escort her into the city. He'd somehow managed to have her own mare saddled up and the two of them swayed through the streets making light conversation about the passing sights. Ser Hugh rode close enough to her that their knees almost brushed against each other, making Sansa's heart skitter and her cheeks grow warm.

 

"Lady Sansa," he said with a deferential smile, "are you hungry? I've found a little place on the Street of Flour that sells the most -"

 

"Oh, that sounds lovely!" Sansa cut in, delighted that he'd had a specific idea in mind for their outing.

 

Ser Hugh laughed and led the way there. He saw to their horses as Sansa admired the bakery. This one, in addition to selling sweets, also offered a few savory dishes and the smell was _wonderful_. A small courtyard with a few tables was set up in front of the shop and Sansa smiled broadly at Ser Hugh as he sat opposite her. A moment later a woman appeared and Ser Hugh immediately and loudly announced that he was in the company of the Hand's daughter and they required the shop's very best dishes.

 

The woman fluttered around Sansa. "Oh, Lady Sansa! We're honored to have you here. I know you'll be most pleased -"

 

"I'm certain I will be," Sansa said, somewhat embarrassed by the fuss Ser Hugh had made, though she knew it was kindly meant.

 

"Today, we have -" and the woman listed a variety of things, each sounding more delicious than the last.

 

"That all sounds wonderful! I think I'd like -"

 

"We'll start with the seafood tarts," interjected Ser Hugh with an indulgent smile.

 

Sansa's mouth was still open but she quickly shut it and smiled in return. _Oh. I'm sure that will be just as good as the fruit salad._

 

"You'll love it, Lady Sansa. It practically melts in your mouth,” he assured her.

 

"You are too kind, ser," said the woman, looking pleased.

 

"After that we'll have sandwiches. Ham for me and beef for the lady, I think." He looked to Sansa for agreement and she nodded.

 

"For dessert, please bring a tray of your most intricate pastries."

 

"Is there anything specific you'd like to try, m'lady?" the woman inquired kindly.

 

"Do you have lemon cakes?"

 

"Why, we -"

 

"Lemons! I'd forgotten," interrupted Ser Hugh. "Two glasses of that lemon drink you served last time I was here."

 

The woman looked blank for a moment but then nodded and said, "Of course," as she moved away from the table.

 

Ser Hugh smiled at Sansa, pleasure on his every feature. Sansa felt shy all of a sudden. _He wants to impress you by taking the lead. You should let him. It's very nice of him to put in so much effort . . ._

 

They watched the people pass by on the street and chatted. Drinks were brought to them. One sip was enough to let Sansa know she didn't care for the combination of wine, lemon juice, and sugar mixed with a sprig of rosemary. It was too fussy and adult but she didn't want to appear ungrateful so she drank it, if sparingly. The seafood tart, on the other hand, was warm, buttery, redolent of thyme and sherry, and absolutely delicious. Bits of the flaky crust fluttered over the bodice of Sansa's dress and stuck to her lips. She tried to dab at them discreetly with her napkin but Ser Hugh made a joke about it and she stopped feeling so self-conscious.

 

She was just feeling full from the tart when their sandwiches arrived. Thin, cold slices of beef were topped with a mixture of mashed fruit and onions spiked with honey and wine. It was so good, Sansa couldn't quite regret the loss of the chicken dish she'd planned on ordering. As she nibbled at her sandwich, Ser Hugh filled her in on his background and how he'd come to be friends with Ser Loras. Sansa thought perhaps he might have been boasting a greater connection than existed there but remained quiet on the subject.

 

Very soon, the woman presented to them a tray overflowing with various pastries. Sansa was embarrassed to have so much food offered to her. She found and chose a lemon cake and rested it daintily on her plate as Ser Hugh made his first selection. The lemon cake was good, though she wished she had something to wash it down with besides the odd drink Ser Hugh had ordered for them.

 

"That's all, Lady Sansa? Come, come. Don't be shy." He scooped up a large danish covered in a mound of icing and pushed it toward her mouth.

 

Sansa leaned away but took it with her hand. "Thank you," she said, though she was quite full and really didn't want anything else to eat.

 

"These are my very favorite. Mmm!" he enthused, taking a healthy bite of his dessert and causing a little cloud of powdered sugar to puff into the air.

 

There being no demure way to eat the enormous pastry he'd forced upon her, Sansa opened her mouth wide to accommodate all the icing. Still, some of it got on the tip of her nose as she took a bite.

 

Of course, at that moment she heard Margaery's voice. "Lady Sansa!"

 

To Sansa's horror, Clegane followed her around the corner into the courtyard. She hastily put the danish down and swatted at her nose with her napkin.

 

“Lady Margaery, how nice to see you.” She tipped her head slightly at Clegane, who was frowning like he had a stone in his boot.

 

“It’s nice to see you, Sansa, and you, too, Ser Hugh. Out enjoying the fine weather?”

 

“Ser Hugh was kind enough to tell me about this bakery –”

 

“Yes, I did tell her. I fear Lady Sansa hasn't had the benefit of getting out into the city enough. I'll see to it that she doesn't miss the highlights, though.” He grinned urbanely and lifted his drink toward her as Margaery laughed knowingly.

 

“What brings you into the city today?” Sansa asked, mortified.

 

“Oh, I was just bringing some toys to the orphanage so the children could celebrate my brother’s nuptials, too. Prince Joffrey was so kind as to lend me his sworn shield even though Sandor is on duty today.” She smiled at Clegane and patted his arm.  “Of course, we're family now, the prince and I.”

 

“How kind,” Sansa replied.

 

Margaery smiled beatifically.

 

They exchanged a few more words and then Margaery and Clegane moved away, the smallfolk parting to let them pass. Sansa felt a strange lethargy. She blamed it on the danish. It was with no little relief that she accepted Ser Hugh’s offer to return to the Red Keep.

 

Once back in her room, Sansa sat on her balcony without noticing the view. She felt tired yet contemplative. She wasn’t sure why but her outing with Ser Hugh had left her feeling deflated. He’d taken her to a nice shop and treated her to a delicious meal but . . . something was missing. She was not quite as taken with Ser Hugh as she’d expected to be and the realization disappointed her. _It was one outing. Perhaps he was nervous. It’s unkind to judge so soon._ Sansa sighed. She knew she was right but, even so, her spirits refused to rally.

 

*

Sansa took a bath before the evening meal to wash away the city dirt and soaked so long she lost track of the time and had to hurry to make it to the great hall promptly. The corridors were empty, the rest of the castle folk seemingly especially punctual today, so she couldn't help but gasp as someone stepped out of a doorway and nearly collided with her in her haste.

 

“I beg your –”

 

“Are you in such a hurry to return to Ser Hugh’s side that you've taken to running down the halls, little bird?”

 

Sansa was embarrassed to be accused of behaving inappropriately but she was equally irritated by his suggestion.

 

“Why should you care?”

 

“Maybe I don’t want my armor dented for the sake of your folly.”

 

"My _folly_?"

 

"What are _you_ calling it?"

 

"I'm not calling it anything."

 

Sandor snorted, which incensed Sansa all the more.

 

"Ser Hugh is . . . very . . . generous and . . ." Why wouldn't the words come? "And . . . _gallant_ ," she added for emphasis. _Yes_ , gallant.

 

“ _That_ mummer?” He gave a derisive eye roll. “Spare me.”

 

“He’s nice.” Sansa felt like she was justifying herself more than she was praising Ser Hugh.

 

“He’s not good enough for you.”

 

_And you are?_ She bit back the words. “Then who would you recommend?”

 

“You’re looking?”

 

That was too forward. Sansa kept her mouth shut and tried not to show the turbulence she felt inside.

 

Sandor watched her. After too long a silence, he said quietly, “You’re a proper little lady. Ser Hugh is a lout.”

 

"What difference does it make to you?"

 

Clegane shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It doesn't but proper ladies should be with -"

 

"Proper gentlemen?"

 

Clegane narrowed his eyes at her. "They shouldn't be with liars."

 

Sansa frowned at him. She certainly wasn't going to air her insecurities to _him_ of all people, but neither did she feel quite up to defending Ser Hugh. She did want to defend herself, though. "He hasn't lied to me," she said stiffly. She supposed she could consult with Loras regarding Ser Hugh's connection to his family but she had no reason to doubt his story.

 

"He's misrepresenting himself to you."

 

Sansa was tiring of this, and she was hungry besides. "You're very vague. Either tell me what he's done or stop slandering him."

 

Clegane's mouth worked like he was going to say something but he just gave her a look and walked off. Unfortunately, he was going to the great hall so Sansa had to follow him. He silently held the door open for her but they parted immediately upon entering the room.

 

Sansa pushed her food around her plate and felt irritated but she wasn’t sure why. Was it because of Clegane or Ser Hugh? It seemed silly to think Clegane might like her when all he did was say things to upset her. Ser Hugh, on the other hand, exhibited a somewhat proprietary manner towards her that struck her as a tad presumptuous. Both situations left her crestfallen. _Maybe I should give him a second chance_ , she thought with a frown, but she wasn’t at all sure who she meant.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Clegane remained a mystery to Sansa. The more he confused her, the more she wanted to figure him out. Was he Joffrey's gruff sworn shield or a young man who'd hold her close while they danced? Was he the type of man who relished killing or did he prefer to gaze at the city's rooftops by the light of the moon? Certainly he was all these men but who was he _truly_? Which one did he _want_ to be? Sansa had not expected the kind of feelings he aroused in her the night of Myrcella's wedding and it gave her no peace. So she slunk after him as he crossed the courtyard by the well.

 

"Ser," called an old washerwoman. She squinted up at Sandor as he approached.

 

"I'm no -"

 

"Ser, please, would you help me? This bucket is too heavy for me and my daughter isn’t here to carry it for me right now. Would you help me take it inside that door?" She pointed with a veiny, spotted hand to a door that lead to the kitchens.

 

Sansa's eyes widened. Clearly this woman didn't recognize Clegane. Something of a hush fell over the courtyard. Asking the prince's sworn shield to assist with petty tasks was bad enough, asking the Hound to do anything was unheard of.

 

Sansa couldn't see his face but Clegane stopped and seemed to be regarding the woman. Then in one motion he stepped forward and picked up the bucket. The woman clucked along after him, thanking him profusely, praising his strength, and lamenting her own frailty. Clegane disappeared inside the door and reappeared after a few moments. Sansa was struck that he must have taken the water to its destination rather than just leaving it inside the door for her. Something in her softened and her eyes swept over the courtyard to see if anyone else had reached the same conclusion. Several people were watching the doorway but, when Clegane reappeared and immediately headed toward the stables, a few eyebrows were raised but that was it.

 

Sansa hurried around several outbuildings and crept up to the back of the stables. She thought it unlikely anyone would see her back here and she was able to follow Clegane's rough voice as he spoke to a stableboy and some men. She heard the crunching of hay under his boots and she moved down the exterior of the building to keep pace with him. His horse whinnied at him and bumped against his stall. To Sansa's absolute astonishment, Clegane kept up a low but steady stream of soothing prattle. She pressed her ear against the wood to make out his words but couldn't. She shifted uncomfortably. Part of her felt she was invading his privacy yet she couldn't tear herself away. It was so unexpected. He'd never spoken to her like this. _No, that's not true_ , she contradicted herself. He'd spoken to her gently while they'd danced. She couldn't quite be jealous of a horse but something in her longed for him to show her the same tenderness.

 

A few moments later, Clegane led his horse out of the stall, saddled him, and thundered away. Sansa watched his retreating form and felt, somehow, that she missed him a little.

 

*

 

She left the stableyard and wasn’t paying attention to where she was going when she was hailed by Ser Hugh.

 

"Lady Sansa, I was just on my way to the Street of Steel. Would you care to accompany me?”

 

“Yes, I would,” said Sansa a little too quickly. Clegane had disappeared in that direction and, though she felt guilty for joining Ser Hugh under false pretenses, she was curious to see if she could determine where he went.

 

In no time at all, she and Ser Hugh were strolling the Street of Steel, he with an eye towards finding a particular armorer, she with hopes of seeing a large, black horse outside one of the shops.

 

They were midway down the street when Ser Hugh found the vendor he was seeking. He wanted to purchase a knife and Sansa could tell, despite his show of carefully inspecting the man’s work, that he was already sold and eager to place an order.

 

“If you want to know if steel is particularly fine, Lady Sansa,” Ser Hugh began to lecture.

 

“Then I need only look at Ice, my father’s Valyrian steel greatsword,” Sansa replied, pulling her eyes off the street.

 

She saw the sting on Ser Hugh’s face and immediately felt remorseful. _He’s only trying to impress you_ , she thought. But she didn’t want to be impressed. She found she didn’t have the energy to ooh and aah over Ser Hugh’s every declaration and wished he would just be himself, whoever that was. With a frown, she realized that his personality was a facade. She shifted uncomfortably and frowned. _In a way, Clegane was right._

 

Still, being rude was never acceptable. “What kind of handle will you choose?” she asked.

 

Ser Hugh was only too happy to evaluate his options at length.

 

A quarter of an hour later, they were back on the street. “Let’s walk up a ways,” Sansa suggested. “I’m told the shops near the top can be quite elaborate.” Ser Hugh readily agreed and they set off, commenting on the displays and the carvings shown on gates and doors.

 

Sansa gasped when she saw Clegane walk out of a shop at the very top of the street. After all this time, she thought he would have been long gone, if he’d ever been this way at all.

 

“What is it, Lady Sansa?”

 

She named the first thing she saw. “That plate. It’s so intricately engraved.” And she stepped inside to pretend to admire it.

 

“I didn’t know you had an appreciation for armor,” Ser Hugh commented.

 

 _Depends who’s wearing it._ Sansa didn’t reply, though. She merely smiled and turned back to run her fingertips over the pattern worked in the steel.

 

*

 

Sansa had hoped to part from Ser Hugh upon returning to the Red Keep but he asked her to join him for tea in the great hall and, still feeling guilty over her sharp words, she accepted.

 

“I would, of course, prefer to entertain you in my solar, as is proper, but I’m only in the city for a short while and so took basic rooms. I had not expected to meet such a charming lady. Had I any idea of my good fortune ahead of time, I would have leased a suite.” He grinned at her.

 

“You are too kind,” Sansa replied with a tight smile.

 

Just then Clegane walked into the hall. He stopped short when he saw Sansa. Ser Hugh didn’t seem to notice the glare aimed at the back of his head. It was short-lived as Clegane turned with a scowl and walked back out.

 

For some reason, this upset Sansa. The entire non-encounter had lasted only a moment yet she couldn’t help feeling debased by it. She knew Clegane didn’t like Ser Hugh and had warned her of his duplicitous nature yet she couldn’t figure out why she cared. She didn’t need his approval in any regard, but it pained her to think that he might be thinking ill of her because of the company she kept, especially when she herself knew it was inferior. If what Clegane said was true, her acceptance of Ser Hugh was tantamount to her acceptance of whatever misdeeds he performed. And Clegane seemed to think she deserved better than that. The very notion made her blush furiously.

 

*

 

Later, after she’d parted from Ser Hugh, Sansa walked the castle, lost in thought. She heard Joffrey’s voice and ducked into a doorway, unenthused at the idea of dealing with him right then.

 

“The day after tomorrow, dog. Don’t keep me waiting.”

 

Sansa heard Clegane’s raspy reply and then the sound of footsteps going in opposite directions. She inched down one hallway and saw Joffrey’s blond head round a corner. Sansa huffed in frustration and then doubled back the other way. She scampered along as quietly as she could and eventually caught up with Clegane. _Where is he going?_ Nowhere, it seemed. He walked various corridors in an unhurried manner but eventually turned into the long hallway leading toward his room. Sansa had been half-afraid he was going to meet Margaery and tried to calm her racing pulse as she gave him a long lead. Despite the fact that he was probably in his room with the door well shut, she felt tempted to walk past it. There was nothing to gain by it yet the idea propelled her forward nonetheless.

 

She was midway down the long hall when Sandor suddenly reappeared, looking not at all surprised to see her there. Her heart nearly crashed through her ribcage at the sight of him. In a panic, she spun toward a deeply recessed window as though she had just been gazing through it, knowing it could in no way justify her presence in that corridor.

 

"Are you lost, little bird, or do you often sneak around the knights' quarters?"

 

"I -"

 

"Why are you following me?"

 

"Why are you following _me_?" Sansa blurted out.

 

Sandor look up and down the corridor. "This doesn't look like the Tower of the Hand."

 

Sansa was so embarrassed that she felt the only way out was to go on the offensive. “I didn’t mean here. You were watching me on the green, on my balcony . . .”

 

"And you were watching me in the training yard, by the stables . . .," he mocked as he began a slow walk toward her.

 

Sansa's face was aflame. "Why were you following me?" she asked again in a small voice. "Did you . . . want something?"

 

Sandor looked like he was going to give her a cruel retort and Sansa braced herself for it. She leaned away as he stepped forward and couldn't stop a sharp inhale when he rested the inside of his forearm against the corner of the window. His tunic pulled against his shoulder, abdomen, and side, muscles in all locations in full relief.

 

"Come out with me, Lady Sansa."

 

Sansa's mouth fell open. "With you?"

 

"Yes. Just you. Just me."

 

He looked completely calm whereas Sansa's nerves were threatening to choke her. She goggled at him in disbelief.

 

"Alright.” The word fell out of her mouth without conscious thought.

  
He actually smiled. It was a fearsome thing but it was still a smile.

 

"I'm off-duty tomorrow," he suggested.

 

Sansa nodded.

 

He smirked at that. "I'll come to your room midday."

 

Sansa nodded again, a tremulous smile breaking out on her face. Then a chilling thought occurred to her. "What about Margaery?"

 

Clegane scowled. "What about her?"

 

"Won't she be mad?"

 

The corner of his mouth twitched. "What about Ser Hugh?"

 

"I've given him no reason to think he has a claim on my time."

 

The smirk returned. "Tomorrow, then. Midday."

 


	7. Chapter 7

It was a long morning. Sansa didn't see Clegane in the great hall as she broke her fast or anywhere else in the castle. Earlier than necessary, she returned to her room to get ready. She wondered what exactly she was getting ready for. He hadn't said what they'd be doing and Sansa wasn't sure how to dress. A part of her wondered if Clegane would take her somewhere fancy to eat, since he'd seen her dining out with Ser Hugh, but she was no better at predicting his actions now than she had been before so she raked through her gowns looking for something that was pretty but not too dressy and practical but not too plain. In the end, she settled on a white gown patterned with a subtle diamond design that cinched under her bust with a bright rose-colored ribbon. Her maid swept half of her hair up and pinned it in a simple style. When she was alone again, Sansa looked at herself in her mirror and thought, _Do I look too young in this?_ She didn't know exactly how old Clegane was but he was certainly several years older than herself. She added some dangly emerald earrings and turned from side to side, frustrated by the uncertainty of the appropriateness of her gown.

 

As she was walking to her wardrobe to consider her options again, a knock came at the door. "Lady Sansa." It was him. Sansa's heart fluttered madly as she crossed the room. _Please, don't let me be underdressed._

 

She opened the door and found Clegane wearing dun-colored breeches, a blue-gray tunic, and a dark gray cloak. His long black hair was loose and his eyes soaked her in in an instant, a look of approval lightening his features.

 

Sansa smiled at him and he offered his arm, which she accepted while suddenly feeling shy. "I wasn't sure what to wear . . ." she admitted.

 

"What you're wearing is fine."

 

"What are we doing?"

 

"You'll see."

 

Clegane escorted her through the castle at a leisurely pace, taking major corridors and walking her out the main entrance. They went to the stables where one of the stableboys was trying to finish readying Clegane's horse.

 

"I'll take him," Clegane said.

 

The stableboy nodded and moved aside, the relief on his face warring with the discomfort of the Hound having to finish his job.

 

"Did you have my horse saddled?" Sansa asked, looking around even though her mare was not kept in this stable.

 

Clegane looked over his shoulder at her like she'd just suggested they fly to their location. "You'll ride with me," he said bluntly.

 

Sansa looked at his horse with new eyes. He was _big_. The way he pawed the ground and tossed his head made Sansa think he was _fast_ , too, and eager to be out. Her breath hitched in her chest.

 

"What's his name?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

 

"Stranger," Clegane answered as he fixed a few last straps.

 

 _That's blasphemy_! Sansa thought, wondering if she shouldn't insist on her own horse. Before she had time to think about it further, Clegane turned, took her by the waist, and lifted her into the saddle. "Oh!" she said.

 

He didn't react as he vaulted in behind her. "Ready?"

 

Sansa looked at the ground far, far below and prayed she wouldn't be tossed out of the saddle. Then Clegane took up the reins and, with his strong arms on either side of her, she realized that wasn't possible. She relaxed a little but then sat straight when her back came into contact with his chest. "I'm ready," she answered, holding herself as still as possible.

 

Clegane guided Stranger toward one of the city gates.

 

"Where are we going?"

 

"We're getting out of here."

 

Sansa sat and watched as the city streets gave way to trees. She felt more at ease now that people weren't turning to look at them with furrowed brows. Soon, Clegane led his horse off the road and they began to cut through the greenery, loosely following the bank of a small creek. The air was moist and fresh and sweetened by the fragrance of flowers she couldn't see.

 

"It's pretty here," Sansa said, figuring they'd reached their destination.

 

A noncommittal noise was all she got by way of response.

 

The creek widened and deepened, though it still couldn't be called a river. The ground grew rocky and Stranger picked his way around the boulders and large outcroppings. Up ahead was a very large hill mostly made of stone. The creek disappeared around the side of it. "Is this where we're going?" Sansa asked, struck by the beauty of the place.

 

"Almost. Stay put." With that he dismounted and led Stranger to the bank and then out into the water. Clegane held the reins with one hand and steadied himself on the rock with the other. Slowly they edged around the hill where it cut into the stream and then sharply receded. On the other side was a private little alcove. It was as though a portion of the hill had been scooped out. The trees at the top of the hill shaded half of the area below that went from stones near the water to moss near the sheer stone wall that was covered in part by a flowering vine. Sansa had never seen a more tranquil place since coming to King's Landing.

 

Clegane led Stranger into the shade and helped Sansa out of the saddle. While he rummaged through the saddle bags, she took in their surroundings. There was a crude log bench pushed up against the stone-face that she assumed Clegane had made at some point and a ring of larger stones encircling the burnt remains of branches.

 

"How did you find this place?"

 

"During a hunt, I chased a fox into a thicket and got separated from the group. I saw this spot from the other side of the water there," he nodded in the creek's direction, "and, later, figured out how to get back. The road runs on the other side of the hill but I don't think anyone knows about this hollow."

 

"It's lovely," Sansa said in all honesty.

 

Clegane finished getting some hay out for his horse and then began to rummage through a different bag. He pulled out a blanket and spread it on the moss.

 

"Can I help?" offered Sansa.

 

"You can sit," he said, though he handed her two trenchers.

 

Sansa lowered herself on to the blanket and watched as he filled his arms. Then he sat and arranged various flagons and food packages on the blanket between them. Sansa reached to open one but he stayed her hand and opened them himself, offering each to her before choosing anything for himself. It was a simple meal of cold beef, a wedge of hard cheese, olives and nuts, several slices of bread, strawberries, and a few apples, one of which he tossed to Stranger.

 

Sansa nibbled at her food and was suddenly unsure of what to say. They were so _alone_. She glanced shyly at him and he held her eye as he tipped his head back and drank his wine.

 

"Do you go up to the roof often?" he asked.

 

Sansa was surprised by his question. "No, not really. I only discovered how to get up there a few weeks ago."

 

"There are lots of places like that in the Keep.”

 

They talked about life in the Red Keep as they ate and he asked her some questions about Winterfell. When they'd finished eating the main portion of their food, Clegane stretched out on the blanket with his hands behind his head. His triceps looked as hard as the stones along the creek bed and a narrow swath of his midriff was visible where his tunic had pulled up, little undulations of muscle apparent across his abdomen. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before gazing up at the clouds.

 

"Is this what you do when you come here alone?"

 

"Yes," he said.

 

Sansa took a bite of strawberry, leaning forward so the juice wouldn't drip on her gown. Sandor noticed and rolled onto his side a little so he could pull a handkerchief out of his pocket.

 

"Thank you," Sansa said, taking it. "So you come here and watch the clouds?" she asked after another bite.

 

Clegane reached out and took some nuts, opening his mouth and letting them cascade in from his hand. Once he finished crunching on them, he said, "It beats the seven hells out of watching Joffrey."

 

Sansa couldn't contain her surprise. It had never occurred to her that sworn shields might not like their charges.

 

"Too bad Myrcella wasn't born first," he added, making himself comfortable again.

 

Sansa looked up at the white puffs scuttling by overhead. "I like Myrcella very much."

 

"She's a proper little lady."

 

Sansa stiffened. Clegane had referred to herself in just that way. "You like proper little ladies, don't you?"

 

He opened one eye and looked at her. Before he could say anything, Sansa added, "I can tell you care a great deal about Myrcella."

 

"What else can you tell?"

 

"I . . ." Sansa wasn't sure how to answer.

 

"Why were you following me, little bird?" he asked as he turned on his side and propped up his head with the heel of his hand.

 

"You still haven't told me why you were following _me_."

 

He hesitated only a moment. "You seemed . . . different."

 

"Than what?"

 

"Margaery, for a start."

 

Sansa stiffened.

 

"I wanted to see if it was all mummery."

 

"And?"

 

"You're a proper little lady," he said, his eyes crinkling just slightly.

 

Sansa couldn't help but smile. He seemed to relax a little, too. "And me?" he asked, rolling on to his back again.

 

Sansa shifted so she was facing the creek and not him. It seemed easier to talk when they weren't looking at each other. "When I realized you were following me, I wanted to know why. So I followed you to see what I could learn."

 

"How did you know I was following _you_?"

 

"I could feel it but Arya was the one who figured out it was you. She was following me, too."

 

He shook his head like he couldn't believe it.

 

"How did you know I was following you?" Sansa asked. It struck her how unusual it was to be having an open conversation about such behavior but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it felt nice to clear the air after wondering about it for so long.

 

Clegane laughed. "I could hear you a league away. And I could smell your perfume."

 

That made Sansa feel self-conscious. "Oh," was all she could think to say in reply.

 

"It smells nice."

 

"So you knew I was there when you helped the washerwoman by the well? Was that all mummery?" She hoped not. She was surprised by how very much she hoped not.

 

"No, I didn't see you until I left the kitchen.” He was quiet a moment before he added, “You spend a lot of time by that well.”

 

Sansa laughed. “You must, too, if you see me there so often.”

 

He chuckled.

 

They fell into a silence after that. The gentle lapping of the water and the singing of the birds filled the hollow with sound. Sansa lounged a little more on the blanket. She looked over at Clegane. His eyes were closed again and he looked utterly at peace. It was a striking difference from his usual appearance. He seemed on edge most of the time.

 

He must have felt the weight of her gaze. "Make yourself comfortable, little bird." Then another thought seemed to strike him. He opened his eyes and asked, "Unless you want to go . . . ?"

 

"No . . ." It was improper to lay with a man other than one's husband but she and Clegane were a good three feet apart and no one could see them. She inched down the blanket and mimicked his pose. The moss was soft and spongy and she couldn't resist stretching her arms and taking a deep breath. _It's so peaceful here._ She hadn't taken Clegane for the sort of man who craved comfort but he'd certainly found a beautiful little haven for himself.

 

“Do you come here often?” Sansa asked.

 

“Not as often as I’d like.”

 

“It’s kind of you to share your retreat with me.”

 

He turned his head and looked at her. There was an awful intimacy in gazing at each other across the narrow span of blanket between them. “I thought you’d like it. And I didn’t think you’d tell anyone.”

 

“I won’t,” she quickly assured him. “And I do like it here. It’s quiet and pretty.” Sansa took another look around. This flowery enclave was not what she expected from Clegane. She wasn’t sure what she expected from Clegane. He didn’t seem to feel a need to impress her and, after recent events, the lack of pretence was refreshing. What with all the excitement surrounding the wedding, getting away from the Keep and enjoying some fresh air and peace and quiet was more welcome than Sansa would have thought.

 

She closed her eyes and was just starting to feel drowsy when Clegane rolled over on to his stomach. He glanced at her before reaching out to pick a tuft of moss and pull it apart bit by bit. Sansa watched him.

 

"Sandor?” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

 

He turned and fixed her with a soft but wary look.

 

“Why are you with Margaery?" she asked quietly. She had to know. He’d been honest about his reasons for following her so maybe his candor would extend a little further.

 

He tossed the moss aside and blew out a breath without looking at her. He shrugged his massive shoulders. "She was a bird in the hand."

 

Sansa was caught off-guard by the intensity of the spike of jealousy that went through her. She thought _she_ was Clegane's only bird.

 

“She seems to like you very much.” The words didn't sound entirely convincing even to her.

 

“She likes attention.”

 

Sansa didn’t say anything. She knew he was right.

 

“What about you and Ser Hugh?” he asked in a tight voice.

 

“He’s . . .”

 

Clegane watched her closely, his expression ranging from aggression to worry to sadness to resignation.

 

“I . . .” Sansa didn’t wish to speak ill of anyone. Ser Hugh had done her no wrong. She just didn’t enjoy his company very much. “He’s . . . not right for me.”

 

“No, he’s not.”

 

Sansa thought about asking why Clegane objected to him so but she found she didn’t want to discuss Ser Hugh any further. Clegane must have felt the same way because he suddenly rolled to his feet and held out his hand. “Enough talk.”

 

Sansa let him pull her up and smiled to herself when he didn’t release her hand.

 

“Careful on the rocks,” he said as he guided her to the water’s edge.

 

They ambled along together, looking at fish in the water, nudging aside stones with the toes of their shoes, and remarking on impersonal topics now and again. Sansa had never spent this much time alone with Clegane before. He was easier to talk to than she would have thought and any silences were comfortable enough but what amazed her the most was his level of observation, particularly about the proceedings and members of the court. He’d been in King’s Landing twelve years longer than she had and had plenty of anecdotes with which to amuse her. He seemed to like it when she laughed. He would smile and look down and Sansa would laugh some more because the action made him seem shy and the Hound wasn’t shy about anything. The shoreline was the widest part of the hollow but it only took a minute or two to traverse so they made slow arcs back and forth, hand in hand, as the shadows grew longer.

 

They heard the shrill cries of some hawks flying overhead and watched as they disappeared beyond the hill. Their path drew Sansa’s eye back to the flowering vine scaling the rock-face.

 

“What kind of flowers are those?” Sansa asked. “I’ve never seen them before.”

 

“I don’t know but they match your dress.”

 

They walked over and Clegane helped her on to the log bench to get a better look. Sansa leaned toward one of the large deep pink blossoms while Sandor kept a firm hold on her arm. The fragrance was similar to a melon and unlike any flower Sansa had ever smelled before. Clegane reached past her and pinched off a bloom. She turned to ask him why and was startled to discover that they were of a height. He tucked the blossom into her hair before returning his gaze to hers. They stood frozen for a moment, their eyes transfixed on one another. Then Clegane leaned in and softly kissed her, her eyes fluttering shut just as he made contact. His kiss was gentle and tentative and so far removed from what Sansa would have expected that she sunk into it. He kissed her harder and moved his hands to her waist. Shivers scurried up and down Sansa’s back and she realized she was gripping his tunic.

 

When they parted, he murmured, “Little bird,” as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Sansa felt terribly shy. She let go of his tunic and smoothed the gathered fabric, a little abashed at her reaction. His eyes dropped to her hands. She realized she was caressing his chest and immediately stopped.

 

He drew her close, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply of its scent. The movement of the air tickled her neck and she giggled. His lips brushed against her earlobe as he whispered, “I should take you back now.”

 

Sansa nodded. The hollow suddenly felt small and close and Clegane was so large and immediate. She took a gulp of air and held on to his shoulders as he lowered her down from the bench, overwhelmed by all of the feelings he stirred up within her.

 

Once the remains of their meal and the blanket had been packed away, Clegane lifted Sansa into Stranger’s saddle and navigated them out of the hollow on the opposite side from which they had entered. It was slightly farther from King’s Landing but required less time in the trees to reach the road. When he mounted up behind her, Sansa felt acutely aware of every inch of his body. It was an agony. That he was attracted to her was certain. That she was attracted to him had been made plain. It was what to do about the attraction that was unclear.

 

They didn’t speak, each seemingly similarly unsettled. Just when Sansa thought she could take his proximity no more, Clegane pushed her hair aside and nuzzled the back of her neck, his breath hot on her skin. The sensation sent jolts down her spine. Sansa’s eyes fell to his thighs and she nearly laid her hands on them when he muttered something to himself, tugged on the reins, and sent Stranger into a thundering gallop. Clouds of dust billowed up behind them as they hurtled headlong down the road. The trees streaked by and Sansa clutched desperately at the saddle as the cold rush of air in her face and the pounding of Stranger’s hooves cut through the smouldering atmosphere threatening to ignite between she and Clegane.

 

*

 

They cantered into the stableyard, seemingly in view of the entire population of the Red Keep. _Why is everyone outside?_ Sansa wondered as she took in all the familiar faces. It seemed only luck had not brought Margaery or Ser Hugh out with the rest.

Clegane, of course, paid them no notice and guided Stranger right through the throng and into the stable. He threw the reins to a stableboy and dropped out of the saddle immediately. He seemed to take a few breaths as he stood and patted Stranger’s flank, loosened a few straps, and otherwise ignored Sansa. “Some water,” he said to the boy, who hastened to comply with the request.

 

She saw Clegane press his lips into a flat line as he came to collect her. His touch didn’t betray any frustration he felt when he lowered her to the ground, his hands lingering on her waist. “Little bird?”

 

She found she liked the term.

 

“I don’t want you to follow me any more.”

 

Sansa blushed and was struggling to come up with a reply when he added. “I want you to be with me.”

  



	8. Chapter 8

"So," Renly said with a broad grin. "You and Clegane."

 

"No . . ." Sansa immediately denied. Sandor's words to her in the stable had sent a thrum of desire through her but she couldn't be with him if he was with Margaery and she'd forced her tongue and jaw and teeth to convey that message to him over the quaking in her knees and the longing in her heart.

 

"Yes," Renly countered, still grinning.

  
  
"Renly, just because I went out with him doesn't mean -"

  
  
"You put out for him?"  
  


"Renly! Really! And, here, I thought you were a gentleman."

 

"Mistaken once again," was his unabashed reply.

 

She gave him a look. "He's . . . nicer than I thought he was."

  
  
Renly smirked. "Oh, was he _nice_ to you?"  
  


Sansa glared at him. "Stop it."

 

"I doubt that's what you said to Clegane."

 

Exasperated, Sansa turned toward the door. "I can see you're in your cups today so . . ."

 

Renly laughed and grabbed her hand. "I'm sorry. I promise, no more japes. If Clegane's hulking figure does it for you . . ."

 

Sansa narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side.

 

He cleared his throat. "I thought you were keeping company with Ser Hugh," he said more seriously.

 

"We only went out twice," she replied, unable to keep a dismissive tone from creeping into her voice. "And the second time, I'd just run into him."

 

"According to Loras, you're quite taken with our noble Beesbury."

 

"And who told him that? Ser Hugh?"

 

Renly laughed. "Undoubtedly."

 

"I don't want to offend Loras by not continuing to see his friend . . ."

 

"He won't take offense," Renly said lightly, his manner full of confidence.

 

Something about that snagged Sansa's mind but she said, "He's a friend of Lady Margaery's, too . . ."

 

"Of course he is. He's a man and she's a beautiful woman."

 

Sansa frowned. "I wouldn't want Ser Hugh to feel led on . . ."

 

Renly smiled at her with a mock-paternal sort of patience. "By you? Impossible."

  
  
"Lady Margaery is sure to be upset. She and Clegane have been seeing each other for a few weeks."

 

"I don't know that Clegane made her any promises."

 

"I would hate to have her upset with me."

 

"So would I," Renly said, a glint in his eye.

 

"I told Cleg-, rather, Sandor, that I couldn't see him if he was seeing Margaery."

 

Renly burst out laughing. "If you weren't so very sweet and innocent, you'd be the most dangerous tease at court."

 

Sansa was horrified. "I wasn't trying to force him to -"

 

"No, you wouldn't do that but that's not to say he won't take it as a challenge."

 

The thought made Sansa miserable. "What do you think I should do?"

 

"I think you've already made up your mind."

 

“I'd still like your advice."

 

"Go for the swordsman," he said with a wink.

  
  
*

  
  
“You went _out_ with him?" Arya pulled up half of her upper lip in a grimace.

 

"Well -"

 

"After he scared you by following you all over the place?"

 

“I wasn’t afraid once I knew it was him.”

 

“Most people would have been _more_ afraid.”

 

“He’d never hurt me.” The words were out of her mouth before her brain had time to think them.

 

Arya let that go by. “So what did you do?"

 

"We went riding and had a picnic."

 

"You went riding and had a picnic." Skepticism poured off her sister's every word.

 

"Yes, he took me to this beautiful little place by the water -"

 

"A _secluded_ little place by the water, no doubt."

 

"It was private, yes."

 

"And then he slobbered all over you?"

 

"Arya!" Sansa felt her face grow warm, both at her words and the memory of Sandor's kiss.

 

"I knew it! I knew he wasn't looking at you like a dog by the butcher’s shed for no reason!"

 

"Is it such a surprise that someone would like me?"

 

"No, it's a surprise that _you'd_ like _him_."

 

Sansa wanted to pour out her heart but she wasn't sure her younger sister would understand. "I do like him. I think. I mean, I feel _attracted_ to him . . ." she said as she moved her hands in vague circles.

 

Arya looked nauseated.

 

"He was just really nice to me and I liked talking to him," Sansa said in a rush.

 

"Oh. Well. I guess that's alright."

 

Relief flooded through Sansa, though she wasn't sure why. "You don't think it's _wrong_ for me to see him, do you?"

 

"You shouldn't care what other people think."

 

"I still do, though. I wouldn't want everyone at court laughing at me."

 

Arya pulled in the corner of her mouth. "No one would laugh. Clegane would kill them."

 

Sansa was about to tell her sister just how unhelpful that statement was but, to her surprise, Arya went on.

 

"I think people would wonder why you were with him, more than anything, but he's a good fighter and he's Joffrey's sworn shield and now he's rich so . . ." She shrugged.

 

Sansa knew she was expected to marry as well as possible. She’d thought her father meant to make her a match with Joffrey when they’d first come to King’s Landing but he seemed to have changed his mind. Sansa could only feel relieved by that. Her father hadn’t hinted at any other potential matches, and Sansa wasn’t interested in getting married yet, so spending time with Clegane shouldn’t be a problem . . .

 

“He was nice to me,” Sansa repeated. “He’s different from what I thought he was.”

 

“You must be so relieved.”

 

Sansa ignored that. For some reason, she wanted her sister’s approval. “It’s probably better if people don’t think they can walk all over the prince’s sworn shield.”

 

“Maybe but they’ll probably think he’s mean to you.”

 

“He’s not. He was sweet.” She couldn’t help the dreamy tone that colored her voice or the faint smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. “And thoughtful. And kind.”

 

“And slobbery.”

 

“It wasn’t slobbery! It was nice!” Sansa smiled broadly even as she felt a flush spreading under her skin.

 

“I can’t believe you kissed him.”

 

“ _He_ kissed _me_.”

 

“I mean, I can’t believe you let him kiss you and I can’t believe you want to do it again.”

 

“I didn’t say -”

 

“It’s obvious.”

 

“Is that so wrong?”

 

“Not if he’s actually nice to you," was her sister's grudging response.

 

Sansa nodded in agreement, satisfaction swelling within her.

 

*

 

“What’s this I’m hearing about you and Sandor Clegane?” her father asked as he looked up from his writing.

 

“I don’t know. What are you hearing?” Sansa was surprised word had reached her father and she wondered why everyone seemed to find the topic of Sandor’s taking her out so interesting.

 

“Are you seeing him?”

 

“He took me out once.”

 

He father leveled a gaze at her. “Just once?”

 

“I think he’d like to take me out again.”

 

“I’m sure he would but is this the best use of your time?”

 

“I can’t sew all day, or read . . . Besides, other girls my age are courted by -”

 

“They’re not courted by the Hound. And, besides, I thought he was prowling around the Tyrell girl.”

 

“I believe they’ve spent some time together,” Sansa said vaguely. She’d sooner walk down the Street of Steel naked than make it sound like she was competing with another girl for a man’s attention.

 

“He can’t be trusted.”

 

“He’s trusted with the prince’s life.”

 

“But not yours. Sansa, he has a reputation for cruelty -”

 

“No, he doesn’t. That’s his brother.”

 

Her father fixed her with a look that let her know he wasn’t interested in arguing semantics. “They’re not so different.”

 

“They’re as alike as Arya and I are.”

 

“It’s unlike you to be so argumentative.”

 

“And it’s unlike _you_ to be so unfair. He treated me kindly.”

 

“Surely you could find a more suitable companion.”

 

“You can’t know if someone’s suitable until you spend time with them.”

 

“Sansa, I just want you to be safe.”

 

“I wouldn’t see him - or anyone - who made me feel unsafe, Father. And certainly no one would dare threaten me while I was with him.”

 

Her father blew out a breath. “I don’t like it.”

 

“Are you forbidding me from seeing him?”

 

Her father looked at her for a long moment. “No.”

 

Sansa walked over and hugged him.

 

“But I want you to tell me at once if he does anything at all that makes you uncomfortable. I’ll have him dealt with swiftly.”

 

“That won’t be necessary but, I promise, I will.”

 

*

 

“Lady Sansa!”

 

The sharp whisper made her turn. “Loras!”

 

He was on duty and clearly supposed to be elsewhere. “Renly told me you want to see Clegane again.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to respond but didn’t know what to say.

 

“You’re better off waiting until Margaery is done with him but don’t bother yourself with Ser Hugh, either.”

 

“Why?” Sansa asked, dazed at this sudden stream of advice.

 

They both turned when they heard footsteps.

 

“Just trust me.”

 

*

 

Sansa’s head was spinning. She’d taken her meal in her room that evening, wishing to be alone with her thoughts. She couldn’t deny what she felt for Clegane. No, that wasn’t it. She couldn’t deny what Clegane made her feel. He’d crept up on her in more ways than one.

 

After a while, Sansa needed some air. She thought she’d go up on the roof, though, in the back of her mind, a part of her hoped Clegane would be there. As she cut through the corridors, she wondered what he was doing. She’d known he was on duty that day but it was late now and he should be free. The night air was cool and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her when she reached the exterior walkway that looked down into the courtyard. A few figures were illuminated by torchlight though Sansa didn’t look at them closely until she heard a woman’s laugh. Margaery appeared to be holding court with several men, one of whom was unusually large. She said something and there was more laughter. Sansa’s breath froze in her lungs as she watched Margaery approach Clegane. She tugged playfully on his cloak as the other men made what sounded like lewd japes. Clegane’s rough voice cut through their words but he took Margaery’s arm and led her out of the courtyard, her laughter ringing in the night air behind them.

 

Sansa stared at the archway long after they’d disappeared through it, gripped by a numbness whose only benefit was keeping her tears at bay. Humiliation rooted her to the spot. She thought Clegane had found her company desirable but, no, it apparently wasn’t worth the expense of any effort. He seemed to have chosen the bird-in-hand after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa wanted to be angry with Sandor but she knew her upset feelings were all her own fault. She’d believed he’d found her special but apparently she'd been wrong. He’d been looking for an easy conquest and, when she’d required the bare minimum of proper decorum, he’d cast her aside in favor of the readily-accessible Margaery. Such behavior, she knew, wasn't worthy of her tears but they fell just the same.

 

The next morning, her maid was just finishing with her hair when a knock came at the door. "Lady Sansa?" The voice was rough and raspy.

 

With her maid present, Sansa could hardly ignore his call but neither did she want to face him when her emotions were so brittle. She opened the door and barely glanced at his face before delivering a chilly, "Yes?"

 

With a hint of a smile, he offered his arm and said, "I thought I'd escort you to the great hall."

 

Sansa dismissed her maid before replying. "And why would you think that?"

 

He drew back, his eyes full of questions. "I told you -"

 

"And I told you I couldn't see you so long as you were seeing Lady Margaery and last night I saw you leave the courtyard with her on your arm."

 

"Still following me?"

 

"No," Sansa answered flatly.

 

Any hint of amusement evaporated from his face. "I told her last night I didn't want to see her anymore."

 

Sansa couldn't stop her mouth from swinging open. "And how did she take it?"

 

He looked away. "Badly."

 

"She blames me, I suppose."

 

"I told her it had nothing to do with you."

 

"And yet you're here, ready to parade me past her in the great hall."

 

"It's over. Who I _parade_ anywhere isn't her business."

 

"I think we'd both be better served by showing her some compassion."

 

Clegane stared at her. "Are you saying you won't come with me to the great hall?"

 

"Not today. I'm sorry."

 

Without another word, Clegane turned on his heel and left.

 

Sansa shut her door and felt empty. She knew Renly would say she was trying to increase Clegane's interest by putting him off but she was certain forbearance was the better approach, even if Clegane, apparently, disagreed.

 

*

 

When Sansa entered the great hall shortly thereafter, her eye immediately fell on Margaery, who sneered at her and leaned in to whisper to her ladies. Sansa ignored their glares and took a place next to Arya. She could see Clegane's large form out of the corner of her eye but she resolutely kept her attention on her food and her immediate company.

 

"I heard Clegane broke it off with Margaery," Arya said quietly.

 

"So did I."

 

"There's a rumor going around that you'd taken up with him a while ago."

 

Sansa sighed. She'd expected nothing less though hearing it said aloud still stung. She ate her food and tried to look happier than she felt.

 

*

 

After breaking her fast, Sansa began to walk to the godswood but Margaery fell in step beside her.

 

"That was a paltry trick, Lady Sansa."

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"Pretending to be indifferent to Sandor and then trying to steal him from me."

 

"I did no such thing."

 

"Don't play the innocent with me -"

 

"I'm sorry he upset you but I didn't make him do anything he didn't want to do.”

 

"You _knew_ he was seeing me."

 

"I wasn't aware of any commitment between you and, had there been one, he wouldn't have asked me out."

 

Margaery glared at her for a moment before storming away, anger radiating off her.

 

Sansa continued to the godswood but wasn't much in the mood to pray. She sat in the shade and wondered how Clegane had tolerated Margaery for so long but then chastised herself for unkindness. The quiet of the godswood was soothing and Sansa let thoughts drift in and out of her mind. She wasn't surprised there were rumors circulating about her. She knew the best way to handle them was to hold her head up high - and maintain some distance from Clegane. That sent a little pang through her. She felt badly for sending him away that morning but, clearly, Margaery was angry enough without provoking her further. A small part of her wondered if Sandor would give up on her. The teachings of her mother and Septa Mordane were ingrained deeply, however, and Sansa knew she'd have to accept it if he couldn't wait until she was comfortable proceeding. It was tempting, so tempting, to seek him out and let him thrill her with his attention but, no, it was not in her to behave so. The thought of returning to her previous lonely state was even less appealing now that she knew how Sandor could make her feel but there was no acceptable alternative if he wouldn't wait.

 

A long period of time seemed to have passed when Sansa roused herself from her thoughts. As she was heading back to the castle, Ser Hugh called to her. Sansa greeted him cordially but was irritated that she'd not been paying enough attention to her surroundings to avoid him. She was less pleased still when he offered his arm and slowed her pace to a stroll.

 

“Lady Sansa,” he drawled, looking down on her in appraisal. “I can see I’m going to have to keep a closer eye on you.”

 

“You take too much upon yourself, ser,” Sansa said coldly.

 

His eyes widened. “I meant no offense. Please forgive me, my lady. I was merely surprised to learn that you slipped away with Clegane at first opportunity.”

 

Sansa stopped walking and released his arm. “And you imagine a slight?”

 

“Of course not. I’m a trifle disappointed, however. You’d given the impression that you enjoyed our outings as much as I did.”

 

Sansa wasn’t in the mood to console him. “I believed our outings were just that and not an implied commitment on either of our parts.”

 

“Well of course two pleasant afternoons spent together wouldn’t obligate one to be faithful . . . not like several weeks might.”

 

"If one's feelings don't obligate one, surely time can't."

  
“After a while, my dear Lady Sansa, certain things are implied.”

 

“I think we’ve just seen that that’s not the case.”

 

“I would hardly hold up Clegane as an example of the norm.”

 

“Nor would I. He’s very much the exception.”

 

Ser Hugh drew his head back. “You _are_ a surprise, Lady Sansa, to have your head turned so easily after one outing.”

 

“Sometimes one outing can do what two can’t.”

 

“I suppose either is enough time for a person’s qualities to become quite plain, despite first impressions,” he said stiffly.

 

“We agree once again, Ser Hugh.”

 

“I hope your regrets will be short-lived, Lady Sansa. Good day.”

 

“And yours. Good day.”

 

Ser Hugh turned and stalked off. Sansa didn’t look after him long. She was exasperated but, even more, rather felt like she’d suddenly found her way again after stumbling on to a dark path. She wondered at herself for having ever thought he was charming.

 

*

 

The next day Sansa pretended not to notice the ripple of gossip that seemed to follow her through the castle. She wondered idly if Ser Hugh had added to it. She felt Clegane’s eyes on her during meals and the pointed non-notice by Margaery and her ladies but she bore it all as best she could. _It’s a false winter_ , she thought. She didn’t know what to do about Sandor but she preferred Margaery’s silence to being confronted by her.

 

After the midday meal, Loras took her aside. “Sansa, I apologize for my sister’s behavior to you. It’s unwarranted and I’ve let her know that you had no designs on Clegane.”

 

“If I had known her level of attachment was so great, I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation.”

 

“That is generous of you but I think this has more to do with pride than attachment.” Loras looked like he wanted to say more but hesitated. “I don’t wish to cause you further distress but I understand you and Ser Hugh have had a falling out.”

 

“We . . . yes, I suppose we have.”

 

“It’s for the best.”

 

“Why did you warn me away from him?”

 

Loras glanced around. “It hardly matters now. I hope he wasn’t ungallant.”

 

“No more so than any other disappointed man.”

 

A small smile reached Loras’s lips. “You are as indestructible as an iron shield, Lady Sansa,” he said before kissing the back of her hand and bidding her a good day.

 

*

 

 _My dear Lady Sansa_ , the note began. _My brother Loras has urged me to reconcile with you. He believes I owe you an apology and, upon reflection, I find I might be wise to be guided by his advice. Will you please join me for tea tomorrow in my family’s solar?_

 

Margaery’s name was an elegant swirl at the bottom of the invitation. Sansa eyed the letter like it might be toxic but, with a sigh, she decided it was probably better to put this unpleasant situation behind them. She didn’t doubt Loras’s intercession and wondered what he said to convince his sister to swallow her vitriol. Sansa wrote a quick note of acceptance and sent it back with the page who had delivered Margaery’s letter.

 

*

 

“Little bird.”

 

The voice coming out of the darkness scared her at first. Sansa had spent the evening playing cards with Jeyne and some friends and was walking back to her room when Clegane encountered her.

 

“Come up to the roof with me.”

 

"I thought you were angry with me for not going to the great hall with you."

 

"I was."

 

Sansa looked into his face. "And now?"

 

"I want to talk to you," he said quietly.

 

Sansa looked up and down the corridor. No one was around and they were close to the steps so she agreed.

 

They walked there in silence. Once they gained the roof and Clegane had checked the other side of the chimney, he said, “How much longer, little bird?”

 

“I’m not certain. Margaery seems very upset.”

 

“She’ll be upset until she doesn’t get attention for it,” he said scornfully.

 

Sansa agreed but only said, "It would be unkind to rub salt in the wound by being public with our actions."

 

Clegane stepped closer. "I could take you back to the hollow. No one would have to know."

 

"I'd like to go but sneaking around will only make us look underhanded. And guilty."

 

"You could never be those things."

 

"Ser Hugh might disagree," Sansa said wryly.

 

His eyebrows rose just slightly. "Are you still seeing him?

 

"No."

 

A brief look of satisfaction crossed Clegane's face.

 

"Loras warned me away from him and I know you don't like him.”

 

Clegane didn't say anything.

 

After a moment, Sansa asked, "What did he do?"

 

“It doesn’t matter if you’re not seeing him anymore.”

 

“I still want to know.”

 

Clegane considered her for a moment before saying, "He took part in a wager to strip a noble girl of her maidenhead."

 

Sansa gasped. "Who?"

 

Clegane shrugged. "Some maid from Tarth."

 

Sansa was appalled. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

 

"The wager was discovered by Lord Randyll Tarly and ended. Ser Hugh didn't go through with it."

 

"Only because he didn't get the chance!" Sansa was close to tears. She'd kept company with someone who'd participated in the most repulsive wager she'd ever heard of and others had watched her do it. Disgust and embarrassment consumed her.

 

"It's not widely known, little bird."

 

"You and Loras both know!"

 

"Loras knows because it happened at Highgarden. Ser Hugh probably came here to crawl back into the Tyrells’ good graces."

 

Sansa didn't ask how Clegane had found out. She felt like she'd just dodged a lance. _My reputation . . ._ she thought.

 

"No one knows, little bird," Clegane said quietly.

 

“They should! He shouldn't be allowed amongst polite society to prey on maids and . . . and . . . !"

 

Clegane chuckled. "If just the innocent were allowed to live here, you'd be the only one in King's Landing."

 

Sansa looked away, uncomforted by that thought.

 

He reached out and squeezed her upper arms. When she looked at him, he slid his grip down until he was holding her hands. “You’re still a proper little lady.”

 

Sansa looked up at him and he stared back at her. He stepped closer and bent so his lips were near her ear. “If you want to wait, we'll wait," he said quietly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The nearer he got, the harder it was to breathe. He didn’t move away, either. Instead, he nosed at her hair and squeezed her hands. “Won’t be easy, though.”

 

 _No, it won’t._ “This isn’t helping.”

 

He leaned away but kept hold of her hands. “Tell me, then, little bird, what would you like to do when you let me take you out?”

 

Sansa’s mind immediately flashed back to the mossy floor of the hollow. “I . . . It would be nice to talk so we can get to know each other better."

 

“I already know you. You're everything Margaery’s not smart enough to wish she was."

 

Sansa thought that assessment might be a little generous . . . and harsh. “That’s mean.”

 

Sandor let go of her hands and raked one through his hair. “Aye, well, it’s true. That girl is all thorns and no flower.”

 

“I don’t know _you_ very well,” Sansa said by way of clarification.

 

He smirked. “You know I like fighting, riding, drinking . . . and some other things.”

 

A little tremble of anxiety went through Sansa. “Those aren’t things I do very much.”

 

“What do you like to do?”

 

“I like to dance and sew. I like to listen to music and I sing and play a little. I read . . .” Sansa frowned. They had nothing in common. Nothing except a common attraction, it seemed.

 

“Gamble?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“You don’t play at dice or cards at all?”

 

“Well, I play cards but I don’t wager.”

 

Sandor nodded. “I know a place we can play.”

 

Sansa hated to ask but she had to. “Is it a winesink?” Her father would never approve of that.

 

“No. You think I’d take you somewhere I’d have to spend the night keeping drunkards and their buggering hands away from you?”

 

“I didn’t mean -”

 

He took her hands again. “Little bird, you’re safe with me.”

 

Sansa’s cheeks grew warm and she found she couldn’t look him in the face.

 

“It’s a gaming hall. Some people play cyvasse, some shoot dice, others play cards. The richer merchants and some of the men-at-arms go. The Imp shows up now and again.  Robert’s been a time or two. The owner hires off-duty gold cloaks to keep the peace.”

 

“Are there women there?”

 

“Always.”

 

Sansa was afraid to ask in what capacity but knowing she wouldn’t be the only female present made the idea seem less sordid. “Would we play with the others? Is there wagering?”

 

“There’s wagering but we can get our own table. I’ll take you out to eat first. There’s usually some bloody awful singer or musician there and it’s hard to hear.”

 

Sansa smiled. She’d never been to such a place and, truthfully, the idea made her nervous even though it seemed like the sort of place where Sandor would feel at home. That alone would have made her agree to the plan. “I think that would be nice.”

 

Clegane chuckled. “Will that serve for us to get to know each other?”

 

“It’s a start.”

 

“A start is all I’m asking for.” And then he leaned down and kissed her.

 

*

 

The sun shone brightly the next day and Sansa awoke feeling revitalized. She’d had the sweetest dreams and not even her impending talk with Margaery could spoil her mood. The morning passed pleasantly and she left for tea ready to put the past behind her.

 

Sansa was nearly to the Tyrells’ solar when Loras’s grandmother accosted her. She wasn’t sure what to make of the diminutive Lady Olenna, what with her unguarded tongue and harsh opinions. Her towering twin guardsmen were less intimidating than the Queen of Thorns though still formidable.

 

“Lady Sansa, give me your arm.  These castle stones aren’t safe for an old woman. Mark my words, that Cersei housed us leagues from everything in an effort to kill me.”

 

Sansa had no great love for the queen but the Tyrells’ accommodations were the best to be had and not all that far from the center of the castle. She offered her arm and they inched along.

 

“Now, tell me, what brings you to see us.”

 

“Lady Margaery invited me for tea.”

 

Lady Olenna nodded. “Good. Good. The two of you ought to be friends. This nonsense over a man . . .” She waved the withered hand that wasn’t clutching Sansa’s arm. “Damned waste of time but she’s young yet. Let her have her fun. She’s a good girl and will marry where she’s told.”

 

They reached the solar door and one of the guardsmen stepped forward to open it for them. Lady Olenna glared at him. “Kindly move out of my way, Left.” She swatted at him with her cane.

 

“I’ll announce you, my lady.”

 

“I don’t need to be announced into my own solar!”

 

The man stepped aside and opened the door to reveal Lady Margaery and Ser Hugh engaged in a passionate kiss. They broke apart, Ser Hugh sputtering, Margaery with a vindictive gleam in her eye that disappeared when she saw her grandmother.

 

“Tea has been cancelled, Lady Sansa,” the Queen of Thorns said very quietly. “I hope your discretion is greater than Margaery’s has proved.”

 

“Of course. Good day, my lady,” Sansa said as she all but fled from the area. The door was shut and she heard excited voices behind her but didn’t linger. She had no doubt Ser Hugh would soon be in the corridor and she had no wish at all to see him. That Margaery had staged this to hurt Sansa was obvious yet, even so, Sansa pitied her just a little to have had her ill judgment witnessed by her grandmother.

 

*

 

The rest of that day was horrifically uncomfortable. Not a word of what Sansa had seen was so much as breathed within the castle. She, of course, hadn’t mentioned it and she felt certain Lady Olenna’s guardsmen would sooner swallow their tongues than incur the wrath of their lady. Yet, still, she knew there would be repercussions and waiting to find out what they would be was a strain.

 

*

 

“Lady Sansa?”

 

Sansa opened her door to find a pink-faced Loras on the other side of it.

 

“I must once again apologize for my sister’s behavior. Please believe I had no part in that vulgar plan. I did encourage her to reconcile with you but I didn’t imagine she’d . . .” He shook his head in disgust.

 

Sansa put her hand on his forearm. “No apology is necessary, Loras. Truly.”

 

“You are too kind. I hope you won’t think less of my family as a result of this unfortunate episode.”

 

“Of course not. I can only think happy thoughts where you’re concerned.”

 

Loras gave her a weak smile. “You’ll be pleased to know that Ser Hugh has left the capital.”

 

“Has he?”

 

“On a flimsy pretense but he’s gone just the same. I feel responsible for that situation as well . . .”

 

“Don’t. You warned me as soon as you could.”

 

Loras looked relieved. “You are as kind as you are beautiful.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead and bade her farewell.

 

*

 

The next day it was announced Lady Olenna had tired of the city and wished to return to Highgarden in the company of her granddaughter. A fair part of the Tyrell contingent would be leaving with them and the castle was bustling with activity. Sansa stayed out of the way as much as possible and didn’t encounter either Margaery or her grandmother over the next few days.

 

On the morning of their departure, Sansa stood on the roof and watched the mass of green-clad men below prepare to escort the Queen of Thorns and Lady Margaery from the capital. King Robert, Queen Cersei, and Princes Joffrey and Tommen were all on hand to wish them a safe and speedy journey. Sansa saw her father was there, too, though he hung back with some other members of the small council. The Kingsguard and gold cloaks stood at attention. Margaery smiled as brightly as ever, waving to the crowd as though she were as innocent as they believed her.

 

The pomp and fanfare went on for far too long and Sansa began to feel restless. Then her senses heightened. She hadn’t been waiting for it, exactly, but she had thought that it might come. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as prickles danced along her spine. She let the sensation slide over her but didn’t turn under the weight of his stare. The tingly feeling increased as confident footsteps and the dull chink of armor grew louder. Sansa kept her back straight when he stopped just behind her, a live current seeming to zing through her blood. Slowly, she reached a hand behind her neck and drew her long, loose hair over her shoulder. Arya wasn’t there to witness the signal but this was not for Arya to see. Sansa could feel his eyes taking in her exposed nape and upper back. He was a hairsbreadth away. As the first horses began to lead the procession out of the Red Keep, he murmured her name, his breath warm on her skin, and she trembled in anticipation, knowing it was just the start.

 


End file.
